Yesterday I Was A Different Person
by broomclosetkink
Summary: Alice Kingsleigh lived in a fantasyland of pocket-watch carrying rabbits, tea time with a Mad Hatter, and a smiling cat that is forever on the prowl for a finely crafted top hat.
1. Chapter One

**Story: Yesterday I Was Different Person**

**Rating: T (Um, for now. We'll see how that goes later on.)**

**Genre(s): Humor, romance**

**Summary: Alice Kingsleigh lived in a fantasyland of pocket-watch carrying rabbits, tea time with a Mad Hatter she has always felt a bit more fondly of then any person should feel about a fictional character from their own mind, and a smiling cat that is forever on the prowl for a finely crafted top hat. Then she steps through a Looking Glass into the world the vast world of Underland, where her childhood stories and constant dreamtime companions are flesh-and-fur real.**

******Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland, in any form. Though I wouldn't say no to it. **

**A/N: Yeah, first things first, give it up for ingenious_spark for beta-ing this, despite the tense changes and Hamish running amuck. She's my hero, and she should be yours as well. Um, so, I really have no excuses for this, and I'd apologize for it, but I'm kind of in love with it. For reference, all the jumping between past and present tense is totally intentional, and is being used a literary device. I suppose if I have to explain it further then that, I've made a complete muck of it, and it didn't work. So, there you go. Please leave a review and let me know what you think of it, as I'm far more nervous about this story then any other I've ever done!**

Alice Kingsleigh, it was said, died on her return trip from China on the ship Wonder, two days from docking in it's homeport of London. Consumption had taken her quickly, it seemed; if not quickly, then slowly enough that no one – not even Alice – noticed the signs before it was too late. Unsent letters found in her belongings, as well as her private journal, made it clear that she not only understood the severity of her illness, but also – after a time – accepted she would not survive the disease that was eating her from the inside out.

_I have discovered that death is only another Adventure_, her sister Margaret would come to read after Alice's death, within the pages of Alice's leather-bound journal. _And I do so like Adventures. It is not death; it truly is a transformation, as Absolem told me. He tells me now, while I spit up blood and he pretends not to notice, that I will always remain Alice Kingsleigh. I have more Adventures to partake in, you see, and Promises to keep. _

Alice's death rocked the small Kingsleigh family. Their assets and titles were passed on to Edward, her cousin, the eldest son of her father's brother. Helen Kingsleigh never recovered from the death of her daughter, mourning steadily for the husband and child that left her far too early. But it was in a world separate from the one Alice had been born into – a world that, many who were educated on the manner would agree, was the world that Alice _rightfully_ belonged to – where the mourning was taken to a level that few could possibly comprehend. Not by all, though Alice is loved and treasured, a myth more then a reality to the public.

No, it is most deeply felt by one man who had offered Alice his heart in riddles and his devotion on the edge of a sword he never _wanted_ to take up. Tarrant Hightopp – the Mad Matter, Royal Hatter to the Queen, and last surviving member of the Hightopp Clan – sank into a madness that was worsened by mercury poisoning and past trauma, but could in no way be solely blamed on those things. There are times, of course, where this new madness resembles the one he has been inflicted with for many years before the death of the Champion of the White Queen; he rambles in unanswerable riddles, spends hours conversing with teapots, and sits at the molding tea table where he had first served Alice tea, when she had been a young girl with bright hair, questioning eyes, and a boundless imagination. He falls into rages that leave everything – even his own body – ravaged in the wake of his mindless destruction.

But it is mostly much worse then even that. He simply _sits_, unmoving, unseeing, collecting dust and cobwebs, weaving broken dreams and what had once been the dearest, unspoken wishes of his heart between his scarred fingers. He speaks to no one in those times; not his friends or enemies, not even the Queen he would have once willingly sacrificed his life to see put back on the throne of Underland.

At least, not until a vivid blue butterfly lands on his nose, and sits – waiting – until he rouses from the nightmare depths of his tortured mind. Three days, Absolum sat, until the Hatter's eyes take focus and he draws in a deep, ragged breath that shakes dust and dirt from his shoulders and shirtsleeves.

"Come with me," Absolum orders softly, "I think there is something you need to see, Hatta."

Tarrant follows, of course. Not willingly, not unwillingly, he simply _does_, because it is easiest thing to do, at that point. It has been years, several years (or so others have said; Tarrant has killed Time and so Time has forgotten Tarrant, leaving him adrift in life without any real knowledge of the passage of the shapeless creature), since the death of Alice of Aboveland. He isn't quite used to walking, anymore, and finds his legs shaking as he shuffles, half blindly, after the glimmering Absolum.

"Unroll the Oraculum." Absolum demands when they are encased in the white walls of Mamoreal. Tarrant, silent, does as is bidden of him. It unfurls, as it always had and always will, only to the point that it _needs_ to be seen. It leaves the past eclipsed and the irrelevant future unseen; Absolum flutters down, landing on the edge of a certain scene and directing Tarrant's gaze towards the moving figures.

It takes Tarrant a long time to understand what he is seeing. It takes further days for him to emerge from the disbelieving madness that overtakes him when he _does _understand the picture and it's meaning. Then, as though no Time has passed at all, he goes to his dusty workroom and reclaims his position as Royal Hatter.

No one – not Thackery or Mally, the Queen or Absolum – ever speaks, in his presence, of what the Oraculum has shown the Mad Hatter. The Cheshire Cat might have, but he fears that even his evaporating skills would be useless in the face of the unbalanced Hightopp's rage, were the subject to arise.

"I'm waiting," Tarrant takes to telling his hats quite often, "Time has forgotten me, but I am still waiting! Alice went away, you see, but Alice will come back. She made a Promise. She broke half of it, but she will keep the rest. I know she will."

Though Time ignores Tarrant, it marches onwards throughout Underland. Until, at last, Tarrant sweeps his forearm across his brow, and leaves Mamoreal as quietly as he had entered it those long years before. He returns to Thackery's broken windmill, sweeping the remains of a long ago tea party from the many tables pressed together that made one long tea table. He covers it in a fresh, white cloth; he lays out scones and crumpets, little sandwiches and bits of fruit. He brews several new pots of tea, and when Mally and Thackery take their seats, he cheerfully sets about leading them on a tuneless, keyless, off-time rendition of Ode to the White Queen's Toes.

And there he plans to wait, until New Alice – Always Alice – makes her final return to Underland.

* * *

Hamish Ascot often had a reoccurring nightmare that involved a blood sausage with legs, a very large table knife, and Hamish being dressed as the Red Power Ranger. Alice Kingsleigh (his childhood best friend, flat mate, and sometimes the pain in his arse) had always insisted that dreams had a meaning, if a person cared to examine said dream closely enough. They had both agreed, however, that there was very little sense to be made out of blood sausages and Power Rangers, except for the fact that Hamish always harbored a secret wish to be a ninja, and his mother refused to let him take karate classes a boy.

He dreamt of being a Power Ranger for perhaps an hour, before he dreamt something Different. Now, Hamish had always left things like _imagining_ and _creativity_ and _artistic fits of rage_ to Alice, because that had always been her area of expertise. (He also suspected that much of her creativity came from ingesting too many finger paints when they were children, but as he had no proof, he'd keep that quiet until the doctors actually tell Alice she has some sort of strange growth that is linked only to Crayola finger paints from the late eighties and early nineties; and then he'll do "I told you so" dance all over the lounge, because _that_ is the way their friendship worked.) Alice talked to her sketchpad and caressed her canvases in a strangely erotic fashion; she had stern conversations with doorknobs and walls, and often asked their plotted pants their opinion on her clothing.

Odd duck, that Alice. But Hamish couldn't imagine a life without his best friend at his side, asking silly riddles and making strange observations about the decline of taking a proper tea. She was his absolute and utter opposite in nearly all things, and Hamish _relished_ – no, he _needed_, really – to be the solid foundation of reality in Alice's life. Why, if it wasn't for him, she never would have completed her A-levels, or even shown up for classes half the time. She would have lost her keys within two days of moving into her flat, and he suspected that she would also wander around in mismatched socks. (She did, actually, but he always reminded her to match them up before they went into public, and _that_ was what really mattered.)

On the same hand, Alice kept Hamish from being far too serious. She made him fly kites on summer days, and watch their favorite movies from childhood – complete with singing along and dancing around their flat in their jim-jam's – despite the fact they were twenty-three, and really had no excuse for such things anymore.

Simply put, Hamish and Alice _went_ together. Peas in a pod, they were, and right happy to spend the rest of their lives driving each other crazy and eating take-out curry at one in the morning.

So, when Hamish fell out of dreaming of being a Power Ranger defeating the Evil Blood Sausage, he wasn't too worried about it. A bit excited, really, because having the same dream since he had been an age where he actually wore Power Ranger jim-jams got a bit old. Perhaps, he mused in the fuzzy part of his brain that was fully aware he was dreaming, he would dream about something exciting. Megan Fox in a bikini, waxing his father's Bentley, and professing her undying love for men with red hair, freckles, and a secret collection of Star Wars figures.

He didn't dream of Megan Fox, or even Star Wars. He had a nightmare. No, he was going to take a page out of Alice's book, there; he had a Nightmare. The worst Nightmare that a bloke could have.

"Alice Kingsleigh," he found himself saying, aware that he was kneeling down in the gazebo in his parent's vast and well-manicured garden, before a crowd of at _least_ a hundred people. Alice was a wearing a positively silly frock that was pale blue and lacey, and made her look far more like a little girl then ought to have been allowed. He knew he was about to do something desperately important, important because his mother had been nagging at him to do this for months, now, ever since poor Charles had passed away.

"_Someone has to take care of the girl_,"he could hear his mother saying, a memory of another dream, perhaps. _"And it will be most beneficial to us all. That is simply all there is to it, Hamish. Chin up!"_

"Hamish," Alice answered him inside the dream, staring pointedly at his shoulder.

"_What_?"

"There's a caterpillar on your shoulder," Hamish, even in the grip of his dream, wanted desperately to shriek, fall to the ground, and flail like a fish out of water. But his mother and father were watching, as well as a rather large crowd, and if he couldn't be a ninja, at the very least he could not act like a little girl. "Don't hurt it!" Alice scolded him in true Alice fashion, before plucking the _thing_ off his shoulder, and setting it aside.

"You'll want to wash that finger," he informed her seriously, and every part of him agreed whole-heartedly with his words.

And then her hands were back in his, and he was peering into her rather worried eyes.

_Buck up_, he found some part of himself wanting to whisper to her, _It's the best option either of us have, old girl. You don't want to be an old maid, and I'll kill myself if I have to court one of the Chattaway Sisters_.

"Alice Kingsleigh," he began again, "Will you…be my wife?" He could feel the hopeful, pleasant grin stretching across his face. He could even see the panic-fear-horror-_WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, HAMISH CHARLES ASCOT_? flashing through Alice's eyes.

Every part of Hamish that was not an active part of that Nightmare screamed. Shrieked, really, very much like he had the first time he'd watched _The Grudge_, and had spent the night cowering in Alice's bed, twitching at small noises and shaking her awake every twenty minutes to go check and make sure there wasn't an evil boy-cat-monster-_thing_ hiding in the loo.

"_No_!" He bolted upright in his bed, blankets and sheet tangling around him like the bonds of holy matrimony, leaving him to wail like the idiot blonde in every B-rated horror movie ever made, before he tumbled off the side of his bed. He slammed onto the floor with a hard _thwack_, panting heavily, sweating so profusely that his hair was stuck to his neck. "No, no! You can't make me, mum, _you can't make me_!"

"Hamish!" By the time Hamish lurched to his feet amid the tangle of his covers, Alice was halfway across his room, and holding a cricket bat with the obvious intent to kill-whack-maim-bludgeon the first thing she saw. She looked frantically around the room, eyes wild and wary, hair tangled and knotted halfway down her back. Hamish screamed again and hurled a pillow at her. "What's wrong? What – _oof_! Hamish, what the _hell_?"

"I had an awful dream!" He very nearly sobbed, sinking back to his bed, his fingers leaving furrows through his damp hair. "Oh, Alice, it was awful!"

"Did the sausage eat you, this time?"

"No," Hamish gave her a stricken gaze, watching as she dropped the cricket bat and crawled onto the bed with him. "It was _worse_!"

"Worse?" Alice stifled a yawn, pressing her back against Hamish's headboard, folding her legs under her. She grabbed him by the back of the neck, tugging until he toppled to the side, his head resting in her lap as he curled his knees towards his chest. She ran soothing fingers through his damp hair, humming a moment in the back of her throat. "What was it, Hammy?"

Hamish was so thankful to have Alice there, being best-friend-Alice and not future-wife-Alice, that he couldn't even be angry over the use of his much hated childhood nickname.

"It was _us_," he choked out, shuddering softly. "You were wearing the stupidest dress I've ever seen, and I'm positive I was wearing a cravat. A cravat! I hate cravats. And we were at home, my home, Ascot Estate…and there were tons of people there, Alice, _hundreds_ I think. And we were standing in the gazebo, and I remember thinking that Mother was making me and we didn't have choice, and then – and _then_ -"

"You realized you were _only_ wearing your cravat?"

"No! I asked you to marry me!" The only sound, for a very long moment, was that of Hamish's choked breathing. And then –

"You _what_?" He twisted until he could see Alice's face in the shadows of his room, noting her wide, horrified eyes. "You asked me to _what_?"

"Mother made me! I told you it was a nightmare!"

"A Nightmare," Alice corrected firmly, "Heavens, Hammy, you poor thing."

"It was _awful_."

"Shh, now. We're never going to get married. Not even if your mother tries to make us."

"Promise?"

"I promise, Hammy."

"Alice?"

"Yeah?"

"You _promise_ you don't want to marry me?"

"Not if you were the last man on earth and the survival of the human race depended on us procreating." Hamish let out a long sigh, snuggling his head a bit deeper into her lap.

"Thank _God_. You're like the annoying kid sister I never wanted, you know."

"And you are the idiotic big brother I never wanted." They shared a moment of silence, before Hamish patted her knee, crawling out of her lap to rest his head on a pillow. Alice slid down in the bed, helping Hamish untangle his blankets after he'd pulled them back onto the bed. After a time they were as snug as bugs in a rug, Hamish with one hand toying with Alice's fingers, a comforting gesture from the days when their mother's used to put them down for naps together.

"Alice-bear?"

"Mm, Hammy?"

"Tell us a story?"

"Which story, then?"

"Hmm…" Hamish wriggled a bit, brow furrowing as he mentally went through the vast array of stories that he and Alice had either acted out as children, or Alice continued to create as an adult. Finally he gave in – both of them knowing which story he was going to ask for, as it was always the same. When Hamish was ill or under the weather, when Hamish was suffering from nightmares or insomnia, or even when Hamish was feeling particularly childish, he requested the same story from Alice. "Tell me about how you slew the Jabberwocky."

"I didn't slay the Jabberwocky," Alice corrected him – as she always, unfailingly did. "It was a different Alice, you know that, Hamish."

"If any Alice was going to go around slaying Jabberwockies," Hamish said mulishly (because it was his part, his line, his turn to speak from the script they had been bouncing between each other for as long as they could form words), "It would be you. Only one Alice could do it."

"Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh," they giggled together, before Alice flipped and turned until she was on her back. She freed her hands from the blanket, and began to sketch shadows on the ceiling with her fingertips. "Alright, how I slew the Jabberwocky, son."

"Snicker-snack," Hamish muttered, "_Don't_ forget the snicker-snack."

"Who is telling the story?"

"You forgot last time."

"I'll never forget again. Alright, let's see…" Alice continue weaving the mingling of darkness and light into pictures and scenes that normally only she could see, but with the moon full and pregnant in the sky, with childhood magic glittering on Alice's lips and tongue, Hamish closed his eyes and clearly saw the Room of Doors that began the story.

"She found a key on the table," Alice narrated, "And she tried it in every door. But it didn't fit one!"

"Not even one?" Hamish asked, lips quirked into a small smile.

"Not even _one_. But when Alice jerked back the curtain – sure she would find a –"

"Right Proper Sized Door!" they chorused together, heads turning to grin at each other.

"She found a door fit only for dolls and cats! 'What a silly door,' Alice thought, but tried the key in it's lock all the same. And it swung open! She poked her head through, her head and a bit of her shoulder, and she found -"

"Alice found Wonderland…" Hamish breathed, his mind painted with the vivid colors of Alice's fantasyland. And when he fell asleep he dreamt of Wonderland; twisted, beautiful, wonderful Underland…

He rides on the back of a Bandersnatch, fingers curling tight into its deceptively soft hair, wind rushing past him, stinging his eyes. He slides off to find himself at a mismatched tea table of moldering crumbs and a dormouse dozing a teacup, while Thackery Earwick sternly lectures the saltshaker on proper teatime etiquette. And the Hatter – poor Mad, Sad Tarrant Hightopp – converses to an empty chair.

"Wouldn't you like some more tea, Alice?" Hatter asks, pouring tea into an already overflowing cup. "You take tea the same, don't you, Alice? You'll be back soon, won't you? You did promise. You_ promised_, Alice, and – and I know it, Alice, why did you die? Why did you leave? Alice? _Alice_!"

"Ne'r talk 'bout Alice," Thackery reminds the salt shaker, "Tis cruel, sal', verra cruel! Hatta – HATTA! _Cup_…" And then Thackery is gone, giggling hysterically, hands pulling his ears over his eyes.

* * *

"Alice, dear, I don't suppose my son has risen from the grave?" Alice tapped her spatula against the counter beside the stove, before turning and eyeing Hamish. He gave a noise that sounded very much like a zombie hungering for sweet, tender flesh as he stumbled into the loo, door slamming solidly behind him.

"Not yet," she answered after a brief pause, turning back to the eggs she was frying. "He had nightmares last night."

"The sausage again?"

"No, no. Something different. Want me to have him call you?"

"That's alright, dear, I can tell you as easily as His Sleepiness. Aunt Tildy is very upset that the two of you haven't come to see her. She _has_ been here for two whole days."

"I've been working, Prudence," Alice said automatically, face crinkling. "And so has Hamish. Otherwise we would have been down to see Tildy much earlier!"

"I'm sure," Prudence answered in a tone that suggested she knew Alice was lying through her pretty white teeth. "Well, it is a Saturday, and there's no work to be had. We are expecting you for lunch. And bring a change of proper clothing, Alice; your parents are coming for dinner this evening. As well as the Chattaways. I don't know if your mother told you, but Brandon Chattaway has recently returned from New York, and his acne has cleared him very well! Fine young man."

"Are you and mum trying to set me up with Brandon Chattaway?"

"He's a very nice young man, Alice. And you won't be a twenty-something forever!"

"He cut my hair when I was seven, and he made Hamish eat dirt."

"You were children!"

"I'm sure he's very nice, Prudence, but I can't see myself spending the rest of my life with Brandon Chattaway."

"Very nice young man," Prudence repeated sternly, "Very handsome, now. You bring something nice, and pack Hamish's good cologne. The one I like. Fiona and Faith will be there, of course."

"Hamish will be _delighted_." Alice said dryly, scooping the eggs out of the skillet, before dumping them onto a plate.

"Do you think so?" Prudence asked rather brightly, and Alice could almost see visions of grandchildren dashing through her mind. "I'm so pleased. Now, go on, just between us girls, which one is it? Faith or Fiona?"

Hamish took that moment to emerge from loo.

"_Coffee_," he groaned, hair sticking up in gravity defying ways. Alice pointed him towards the coffee pot, where the first pot of the day was waiting for him.

"Your mother's on the phone," she said, tucking said phone between her chin and shoulder as she picked up the plates of eggs and squeezed past Hamish, making her way towards the small table in their equally small dining room. "We're having dinner with our parents this evening."

"_Ugh_." Hamish grunted, banging through the cabinets on his daily hunt for his favorite hazelnut creamer.

"And the Chattaways. Fiona _and_ Faith will be there, Hamish. Your mother wants to know which one you prefer."

"Clever Alice," Prudence whispered – as though Hamish might hear her, despite his distance from the phone, "Ask him while he's in his morning haze!"

"Gay," Hamish grumbled, "Tell her I'm gay."

"Brandon's home, too."

"_Bugger all_!"

"Did he just say he was a homosexual? And he wants to – to _bugger_ Brandon Chattaway?"

"Your mother wants to know if you want to bugger Brandon Chattaway."

"No! I – damn it, Alice, it's too early for this!"

"Gay or not," Prudence sniffed, "The Chattaways are a fine family."

"I'll be sure and let Hamish know."

"Bring that blue dress. You look darling in blue."

"Blue dress, Hamish's good cologne. Got it."

"Since Hamish is setting his hat on Brandon, should I seat you next to Fiona or Faith?"

"Neither, I like redheads," Alice answered easily, "It's why Hamish and I get on so well."

"I wouldn't have to go through these problems if you and Hamish would make it legal, dear. You already live together. What's the harm?"

"Goodbye, Prudence. We'll see you this evening."

"Alice Ascot sounds delightful, you know, and it doesn't have to be a very _large_ wedding! We can -" Alice hung up, tossing the cordless to the table. She plunked down before her plate, watching as Hamish banged his way to the table, slurping at his hot coffee.

"Well," Alice lifted her pale eyebrows, reaching out snag buttered toast from the saucer she had sat it on before she'd started the eggs, "Your mother is dying to marry us off to the Chattaways. She's perfectly willing to see you in civil partnership with Brandon."

"_No_," Hamish shuddered, "No, no!"

"She offered to set me up with one of the twins."

"Only if I can watch." Alice lobbed a bit of crust at Hamish, which he ducked easily. "Do we have to go to my parents this evening?"

"Do you want to listen to our mothers nag us if we don't?"

"Do you want to listen to our mothers nag us if we _do_?"

"Damned if we do, damned if we don't." Alice sighed, shrugging.

.#cutid1**DIsclaimber**


	2. Chapter Two

**Story: Yesterday I Was A Different Person**

**Rating: T (Um, for now. We'll see how that goes later on.)**

**Genre(s): Humor, romance**

**Summary: Alice Kingsleigh lived in a fantasyland of pocket-watch carrying rabbits, tea time with a Mad Hatter she has always felt a bit more fondly of then any person should feel about a fictional character from their own mind, and a smiling cat that is forever on the prowl for a finely crafted top hat. Then she steps through a Looking Glass into the vast world of Underland, where her childhood stories and constant dreamtime companions are flesh-and-fur real. **

**A/N: HO SNAP, second chapter. Much thanks to my beta CrazySpark (her handle here at The Pit).**

"Remind me again," Hamish muttered in a low undertone to Alice as they settled themselves down for lunch on the terrace of the Ascot Estate with his parents, great-Aunt Tildy, and her demon cat Bootsie. "We are adults, aren't we?"

"Supposedly," Alice answered back in a strained sort of whisper, "Though perhaps it was all a very boring dream."

"Children? What are you whispering to each other about?"

"Brandon Chattaway's bum," Alice answered with a prompt smile, twisting in her seat to beam at Prudence. While Hamish answered in the same breathe,

"Alice having a lesbian affair with the Chattaway Sisters."

"Well, then," Prudence sniffed rather stiffly – while Jeremy Ascot stuffed his knuckles in his mouth, turned a disturbing shade of purple, and nearly knocked himself out of his chair to keep the guffaws straining to escape his throat silent. "Don't slouch at the table."

"Mother? You do realize we are twenty-three years of age, and the time for a children's table has long passed. Don't you?"

"Nonsense," Prudence narrowed a steely look on her only child, "Until the two of you learn how to make proper conversation during a meal – the kind that does not include bums or lesbian affairs – Alice and yourself will be enjoying only each other's company."

"When will they be getting married?" Aunt Tildy asked, leaning towards Prudence, one hand holding her salad fork, while the other pretended to pet - but really kept a chokehold on - her ancient and possibly a servant of Satan cat, Bootsie. Bootsie had, as far as Alice and Hamish could tell, been ancient by the time they made their grand entrances into the world. Twenty-three years later, he was blind in one eye, his fur was falling out, and after a lifetime of wearing silly silk ribbons and bells, he hated the world. Alice supposed she would have hated the world if _her_ name were Bootsie and crazy Aunt Tildy carried her around, so she really couldn't blame the poor creature.

"Who, Auntie?" Jeremy asked, blinking a bit owlishly at the elderly woman.

"Our Hamish and little Alice, of course! They haven't eloped, have they? You can't elope! Isn't right! Only hippies and pregnant women elope!"

"They aren't getting married," Prudence said with a lip curl that suggested the words made her ill, though she leaned forward and said in the lowest whisper Tildy could still hear – which meant the Pope in Rome probably heard every word she said – "At least, that's why they say. I imagine I'll be sending wedding invitations out very soon!"

"Very soon," Jeremy muttered under his breath, earning himself a reprimanding glare. "What? I was agreeing with you!"

"You don't agree in that tone of voice, Jeremy."

"Oh, Prudie, leave off the kids. They're mates, why should they have to be anything else?"

"Perhaps you don't want grandchildren, Jeremy?"

"He's twenty-three!"

"Want some tea, Bootsie, love?" Tildy stuck Bootsie's face into a saucer with lukewarm tea. Alice and Hamish slumped down in the seats, prodding their salads with forks, and tossing dirty looks at the elder Ascots.

"If there is a God," Hamish muttered seriously, "Lightning will strike us dead."

"JubJub bird attack," Alice was chanting under her breath, "JubJub bird attack!"

"Bootsie, you bad boy! Stop now, and drink your tea!" Bootsie did not take kindly to having his face shoved in a saucer of tea, extra cream added or _no_.

"Death by Bootsie," Alice rapidly switched her chant, "Death by Bootsie."

"Alice and Hamish would make _beautiful_ grandchildren!" Prudence was tearing up by that point, dabbing at her aristocratic nose with her linen napkin, "I just want Hamish to be happy! And Alice is already part of the family!"

"Alice'll always be part of the family," Jeremy insisted a bit desperately, "And Hamish will be happy with _whomever_ he falls in love with, and chooses to marry!"

"_You don't love them like I do! I have a mother's heart, and you're a – a man_!"

"I can't win this," Jeremy admitted more to himself then his wife. "Jonathan, brandy please." He gestured – a bit desperately to the butler the Ascots had employed for the past twenty-five years. Given the length of his employment, and the fact he was one of Jeremy's favorite hunting partners, he did nothing to hide his smirk as he went through open terrace doors to fetch the called for brandy.

"Bootsie, you naughty kitten! Come here, now, puss! Drink! Your! Tea!"

"Stab me with your knife," Hamish peered intently at Alice from under the flop of his ginger hair, pointing towards the side of his neck. "Right here. I'll be dead in a matter of minutes."

"All we need is my mother showing Tildy our baby photos, and dad making inappropriate jokes. Dinner will be grand this evening, won't it, Hammy?"

"Lightning," Hamish implored the sky with a dramatic flop of his neck and large, pleading eyes. "Please?"

"_Bootsie_!" Tildy shrieked, seconds before an ear splitting yowl of feline rage cut through even Prudence's delicate, lady-like weeping. Blood blossomed along Tildy's gnarled hand, and Bootsie clawed his way up her shoulders. He took a flying leap – an act of faith, given he had sight only in his right eye – and soared towards Alice, claws extended, eyes flashing with an insanity born of twenty-some odd years of being Tildy Ascot's cat. Despite the fact it he was aimed directly for Alice it was Hamish who shrieked, which wasn't really all _that_ surprising, Alice supposed. He toppled to the side, legs of his going upwards as his skull rebounded off the terrace.

Alice ducked – just in time – and Bootsie hung by his front claws off the table. He scrambled upwards, kicking Alice in the throat to do so, leaving her to wheeze once and wonder at the strength Bootsie possessed in one desperate paw. He made it to the tabletop, but in the process upended Alice's salad plate with a rather badly made lunge for freedom. The plate shattered, soggy salad covered Alice and stuck in the thick length of her ponytail, and vinaigrette made its way into her eye. She yelped, pressing the palm of her hand to said eye, hopping to her feet, even as she bent at the waist.

"Ow! Ow!" And then, "You _bloody cat_!"

"_Bootsie_!" Tildy began to wail, "No! No, come back to mummy!"

"I think I've gone blind," Alice informed whoever might have been paying attention at that moment.

"Didn't kill me," Hamish muttered, "_Figures_."

"Now, calm down Aunt Tildy," Prudence began to fan her hands at Tildy, who was clutching the fabric over her heart and looking torn between fainting or having a heart attack. "We'll catch Bootsie! We – Hamish! Go save Bootsie!"

Hamish, still lying on the ground, twisted a bit, watching as Bootsie made for the forest on the other side of the Ascot's garden.

"Alice dear," Jeremy stood and made his way to Alice, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Are you alright?"

"Vinaigrette in my eye," Alice explained, "I think I've gone blind."

"Spinach in your hair, as well."

"_Lovely_."

"Go clean up. Hamish, listen to your mother! Go get that bloody cat!"

"But _dad_ -"

"_Get the bloody cat, I said_!"

"Stupid cat," Hamish grumbled, pushing himself to his feet. "Why can't Alice go?"

"Because she's got salad dressing in her eye, son. Now be a man, and go out there, and get that bloody cat before Aunt Tildy hurts herself!"

"Just a concussion," Hamish muttered, "No problems here, I'm fine. You'll be sorry when I fall over _dead_."

"Hamish Charles!"

"I'm _going_, mother…"

"Jeremy, here – hold this over Alice's eye, I've put some water on it. Take her upstairs; I'm going to stay with Aunt Tildy. Now, don't _worry_ yourself, Hamish will bring Bootsie home safe and sound."

"Alice gets all the luck," she heard Hamish mumble, before Jeremy began to lead her into the house.

* * *

Hamish was not entirely fond of nature. He approved of it from a…poetic, yes, a _poetic_ standpoint. Trees and flowers, bushes and twigs were all very nice and had their place in the world, but their place was on the other side of a window. He liked looking at trees, or walking through the gardens that were his mother's pride and joy. Having been born allergic to everything from grass to dust, flowers to feathers, he was not _ever_ inclined to wandering through the sprawling wilderness that was part of his childhood home, however.

If he recalled correctly, the last time he had been an active part of a nature scene, he had been nine. Alice had dared him to climb a tree. He'd scraped his knees and hands, been poked in the eye with a twig, and had fallen several feet. It was a wonder he hadn't broken a bone, of that he was sure. He _had_ landed in a patch of poison ivy, however, and had spent the better part of two weeks wearing a pink lotion that clashed terribly with his freckles and ginger hair, all the while scowling at Alice, who had cheerfully dubbed him Sir Scratches.

Hamish really couldn't blame Bootsie for fleeing to the woods to find a nice shady spot to lie down and die in. The poor feline didn't have enough peace to die in Tildy's presence. Hamish rather suspected the poor creature had passed several times over, but Tildy's wailing, teeth gnashing, and neck jarring shaking of his limp body had jarred his heart back to beating. Had to feel sorry for the poor puss, _really_.

"Blasted trees," he grumbled as a branch snagged his coat, "And blasted cat! Come _here_, Bootsie! I don't blame you for running away, but you are the only creature on Earth that can possibly make Aunt Tildy stop carrying on. So you must take a hit to the chin, chappy, and go back! Bootsie! _Bootsie_, here kitty! Idiotic _puss_!"

Hamish was incredibly glad that no one – say, Alice, for example – was anywhere in the woods to hear him shriek like a girl and attempt to do what he had sworn _never_ to do again; that was, climb a tree. Out of sheer fright, because that raccoon had death in its glimmering, beady little eyes. Probably afflicted with rabies. Oh, Aunt Tildy _had_ to leave him a grand inheritance after _this_. Gone into the wilds to find her puss Bootsie, attacked by a rabid raccoon, tree bark and pollen doing it's best to swell his nose shut, while his eyes narrowed to slits and threatened to start watering.

"Bootsie!" Hamish had never been so happy in his life to see the scraggly, coarse-furred creature. He sat on a branch directly out of Hamish's reach, flickering his tail and giving Hamish a look that was best described as 'Considering How To Kill Hamish'. Hamish wasn't sure why all of nature's creatures were out for his blood, but the fact remained that everything with fur, feathers, or scales wanted him dead. Or for dinner. Probably not at the same time, either.

"I don't suppose you'll be a good boy and come down willingly? Come on, puss, come here! Come here! I'll…I'll give you fish!" Bootsie gave a mew that was most assuredly the feline equivalent to "Fuck off," and began sharpening his claws on the branch. Hamish briefly considered the merits of knocking it on the head with a rock to induce unconsciousness, and a graceless fall from the tree branch. He finally conceded that PETA would hear about it (they had cameras in the trees, didn't they?), and he would be skinned and made into a coat to be taught a lesson. Blast.

"All right, then," he said firmly, "Don't come down. I will come get you. As I said, I really _don't_ blame you for running away. But I can't take Aunt Tildy gnashing her teeth and acting the mourning pet owner a moment longer. So you must come home." Hamish hoped the sound of his voice would lull the cat into a false sense of security. On the chance that Hamish's fears were correct and the creature understood every word he was saying, he hoped it would bow the logic Hamish was putting forth.

He carefully balanced himself on a root that was poking, quite helpfully, rather far out of the ground. He kept one hand on the base of the tree as he stretched himself onto tiptoes, doing his best not to fall backwards into the rabbit hole behind him and sprain his ankle. What a _kick_ Alice would get out of that, certainly after all their childhood games of falling down a rabbit hole and going to Wonderland. Even if he didn't sprain an ankle, Alice was going to find the whole story terribly amusing. He'd probably never live it down, actually.

"Come on, puss," he did his best to croon, though he only sounded rather strained and in dire need of a tissue, "Come here, Bootsie…"

Sharp white claws flashed outwards when Hamish's hand came within a mere inch of taking hold of Bootsie's leg. Hamish howled as the cat scored several long gouges into his hand, leaving him to jerk said appendage backwards. He tottered dangerously for a long moment, pin wheeling his arms and doing his damnedest to hop forward and away from the rabbit hole.

He failed, of course, because if Hamish didn't have bad luck, he would have had none at _all_.

He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the impact. Possibly his skull rebounding off a rock, leaving him to bleed to death in the woods. The animals would feed on him, and when he was found, they would be forced to identify him by his dental records, as he wouldn't have a face left at all. He _hated_ nature. It was terribly depressing to realize that was probably going to be his last thought. He had hoped it would have been something amazing like, "I can't believe I took down seven pirates before I was captured," but no, it was only, _I hate nature_.

_Here Lies Hamish Ascot_, he imagines his tombstone will read, _Killed By Bootsie the Cat and a Badly Placed Rabbit Hole_.

Impact never comes, however. Only air whooshing past his limbs, his stomach darting into his throat. He twists blindly before he opens his eyes, and finds himself peering down the longest, strangest tunnel in his life. A rather large book smacks him in the head, and he is sure there is lit candle three feet up.

Hamish screams as he had never screamed before. He doesn't even _pretend_ he is bellowing in a manly fashion. He screams, shrieks, wails, and when he sees a piano hurtling towards his face, he begins to pray to every deity he can think of on such short notice.

"Don't let me die here, Oprah," he babbles (best to cover all his bases) helplessly, before the piano goes jerking upwards and away from his face, "Oh my _God_, don't let me die like this!"

He slams into the ground with a sickening _thud_. He has no more then gathered to the strength to lift his head when the world tilts, and he falls down once more. To the real floor, he can see after a time. He had crashed through the floor and onto the ceiling. And hung there for a time, hadn't he? Gravity, he assumes, had fallen much more slowly then he had.

"Oh, God," he breathes, "Oh, no, this is not happening. I have head trauma. I am bleeding on the forest floor, thanks to Bootsie. This is not happening. This _is_ not happening!"

It is happening, though.

He sits in a room filled with doors. Doors, he knows, that is locked, and will not be opened. There is only one door that can be opened, and to pass through it, he will be forced to drink Pishsalver and shrink to an impossible height. Beyond it he will find the mad, terrifying world of Wonderland; where Mad Hatters carry on endless tea parties, and Jabberwockies are slain with Vorpal swords by Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh.

"She found a key on the table," Hamish mutters numbly, pressing a hand to his throat. "And she tried every door. But it didn't fit one! Not even one? Not even _one_. But when Alice jerked back the curtain – sure she would find a Right Proper Sized Door – she found a door fit only for dolls and cats! 'What a silly door,' Alice thought, but she tried the key in the lock all the same. And it swung open! She poked her head through, her head and a bit of her shoulder, and she found – she found Wonderland…"

Hamish trails off, his stomach quivering violently.

Just like Alice's beautiful, _mad_ stories – just like in the haunting artwork she creates, pictures that speak more then words and never quite leave the viewers imagination – Hamish has fallen down a rabbit hole into twisted, beautiful, wonderful Underland. Hamish is positive, somewhere in the back his mind – or far away, beyond the garden, in front a decaying windmill, he can hear a mad, broken voice raging –

"Why did you die, Alice? _Why did you ever leave me? Alice? Alice!_"

* * *

"There are three options," Hamish seriously informs the bottle of Pishsalver he holds, fingering the little tag that read _Drink Me_. "One: I hit my head, and am now in a coma, while wild animals debate the merits of eating my tender, juicy flesh. Two: Alice put LSD those chocolate biscuits she made, knowing I would eat them before we left for mum and dads, and I am now experiencing the worst trip seen since Woodstock. Three: I…" Hamish pauses, throat sticking on the words.

Twenty-three years he has been friends with Alice. Twenty-three years of watching her fly away, somewhere past Reality, Time, her own mind, even. She was born with another _world_ living inside her, a crazy, mad, beautiful world that she has always allowed Hamish to glimpse through her artwork and stories, crazy, rambling discourses to her easel about Why Alice's Will Not Lust After Fictional Characters, and their childhood games of Jabberwocky versus Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh. Despite the fact that he is the closest person to her, despite the fact she has never once _not_ allowed him those glimpses, even brief moments where is allowed to fly away with her – despite those things, Hamish has always longed for _more_.

Prudence Ascot could not stop Alice from flights of fancy and her exuberant, insane dance that sounded more like a vulgar sexual act then – as she termed it – a dance of unbridled joy. Hamish, on the other hand, came from her womb, lived under roof, and had absolute control out of him for the vast majority of his life. He was forced to think a certain way, act in a certain manner, and never – not ever – fly away and follow Alice.

He has always wanted to, though. There is something…_magical_ about Alice's words and pictures, the faraway glint to her eyes, the mischievous tilt to her lips as she whispers, "Can you imagine what the Cheshire Cat would say?" when Hamish's mother gives them a tongue lashing. He has always believed, in the deepest part of his soul, that Alice _is_ magic, and her Wonderland _is_ real. Even if it's only her mind, that beautiful land is _tangible_.

And here he is. In the Room of Doors, holding Pishsalver, wondering if he is concussed, tripping, or if the impossible is possible.

"Maybe," he whispers to the bottle, as though he is afraid his mother might pop out of a corner and twist his ear off for even suggesting it, "It is possible. Maybe…Wonderland…" He draws a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and says,

"Three: Alice's Wonderland is real, and I am in the Room of Doors. I've fallen down the Rabbit Hole."

Hamish has never realized it before, but Lies and Truths have a _taste_. When he speaks _Three_, a taste like spring wind and honey bursts to life on his tongue.

And he knows, without any doubt, he is in Underland.


	3. Chapter Three

**Story: Yesterday I Was A Different Person**

**Rating: T (for the moment)**

**Genre(s): Humor, Romance**

**Summary: ****Alice Kingsleigh lived in a fantasyland of pocket-watch carrying rabbits, teatime with a Mad Hatter she has always felt a bit more fondly of then any person should feel about a fictional character from their own mind, and a smiling cat that is forever on the prowl for a finely crafted top hat. Then she steps through a Looking Glass into the vast world of Underland, where her childhood stories and constant dreamtime companions are flesh-and-fur real.**

**A/N: So, writing this thing was harder around the second time. However, I think it's even better then first. So, in the end, the tension headache was worth it. Many thanks to CrazySpark, who loves me despite my spelling errors, LOL. All the kind comments and reviews from everyone out there rocks my world, and I thank you all very much! As usual, constructive criticism is always welcome, as anyway I can improve as a writer is a Good Thing. **

**Disclaimer: I do not Alice in Wonderland in any form. Trust me, there would have been at least a PG-13 rated snog in the film if I had any influence over it.**

Alice had the Strangest Thoughts sometimes. They floated into her head without warning and no apparent reason, random bits of amusement or odd ponderings, and sometimes she had to wonder if _everyone_ thought the way she did. If that was the case, she was sure she didn't understand their will power at keeping their questions, comments, daydreams, and general rambling to themselves. Because it was fairly impossible for her not to go tripping off down a garden lane full of talking flowers and smiling cats, even when doing things – like driving, say – where it was probably not the best idea for her to go down that mental path.

She was fresh from a shower (she didn't fancy the idea of smelling like vinaigrette at dinner that evening; Lowell, she was sure, would have the filthiest things to say about _that_), bent at the waist as she roughly towel dried the heavy mass of her hair. And that was when a Strange Thought, with an equally Strange Mental Picture, decided to make it's self at home in her brain. Alice let out a snort of laughter before she could silence herself, hastily wrapping the towel around her hair and standing straight. She tightened the larger towel she had wrapped around her body, nearly slipping on the tile floor of her en suite bathroom off her bedroom at the Ascot Estate, darting rather frantically towards her bed, and the overnight bag that rested – innocently – on top of it. Her clothing flew for several moments, before she pulled out her sketchpad and pencil.

"Hamish is going to die when I show him this!" She whispered rather gleefully to herself, rubbing her hands across the bedspread to make sure they were completely dry before she clambered onto the mattress, grabbing a pillow to rest her sketchpad on.

In short order, with quick lines and sure fingers, a picture appeared.

Hamish Ascot, standing outside the Door that leads from the Room of Doors and into the Garden. Hands propped on his hips, a monogrammed kilt that had once been his handkerchief looped and knotted around his waist, he surveyed the new world before him as though he was king returning to his kingdom.

_Half-Naked Hamish_, Alice scrawled under Hamish's bare feet when she finished, _Arrives In Wonderland._

"He'll love it," Alice assured herself with a bright smile, before one eyebrow arched high, and a rather wry sort of chuckle fled her mouth. "Well, if he survives the woods _and_ Bootsie…"

* * *

Hamish surveys Alice's Wonderland with an obvious air of satisfaction. If it is all _real_, as he believes it is? If it is real, it is the unspoken dreams and wishes of both he and Alice, and there is nothing in the world that is going to stop him from enjoying himself. And as _soon_ as he determines how to contact Alice, he is going to bring her _here_, to her Wonderland. They will ride the Bandersnatch, take tea with the Hatter, and – well, he hopes the whole Jabberwocky business isn't a – a _prophecy_ of some sort, because he doesn't fancy watching his best mate _really_ go up against a dragon.

Actually, he is quite certain that if he has to watch Alice fight a dragon, he is going to get himself killed. Because there are few creatures or people allowed to harm Alice, and the list is compromised of one: himself. If he wants to call her skinny, knobby-kneed, fuzzy haired, and then trip her when she walks across their lounge, he _can_. (And she will call him a red-haired, freckled, allergic-to-the-sun waste of DNA, and hit him with a throw pillow, and all will be well in their world.) But a dragon actually attempting to kill and – and _eat_ Alice?

He must make certain to ask someone about that. Because if that is case, if she must fight a Jabberwocky, he will have to learn ninja skills with the utmost of haste. If not ninja skills, then how to swing a sword. He knows Tarrant Hightopp wields a claymore like it's an extension of his arm, because when he and Alice were teenagers, she had obsessed fanatically about it. In fact, he is positive that there are _more_ pictures of the Mad Hatter in a kilt, with glowing eyes, and that blasted claymore in hand, then there are pictures of the (supposedly? Possibly? Hopefully not!) fictional man with a tea cup in hand.

And there are _quite_ a lot of those!

"Hmm," Hamish muses to himself as he makes his way down the rocky stairs, "_If_ the Hatter is real, and I bring Alice here, I wonder what'll happen?" He pauses only a moment, before he giggles like a thirteen-year-old boy catching sight of a bra strap.

"I _know_ what'll happen," he continues to explain to himself, "Yes, I do know! Alice will swallow her own tongue, and then do something rather foolish. Probably toss herself at him, beg him to reproduce with her, and – ick. _Ick_. Eat…cake. Yes, they will eat cake, and that is all. There will be cake eating!" Hamish declared firmly, nodding to a flower as he made to pass it.

"You have cake on you, then?" A cheerful looking – and very large, Hamish noted, though only because he is so blasted small! – red flower spoke up. Hamish squeaked, sounding almost exactly like one of Bootsie's toy mice, and stopped mid-stride to stare at the flower.

The flowers, he recalled dimly, can talk. He had forgotten that, hadn't he?

Oh, dear, talking flowers (talking flowers with eyes and lips, and it is a _bit_ disturbing, he has to admit) had caught him talking to himself. About Alice and a Mad Hatter shagging like – _eating cake_, he reminds himself firmly, before the images can take root, and he is forever stricken blind, deaf, and dumb from horror. From Alice and a Mad Hatter _eating cake_, of all things!

"Er -" he says in what he hopes is a desperately clever fashion.

"Need a bit of cake," the red flowers buttercup yellow neighbor chimed in, "Bit of Upelkuchen, hmm? We don't see many of you lot, but I dare say we do know when we see a two-legger in need of Upelkuchen!"

"Er – that's that cake, right? That makes you grow?"

"'Course it is," a blue flower comes into the picture, and Hamish is sure he is either going to hit the ground giggling like a little boy out of excitement, or he is going to have a stroke from Too Many Impossible Things Happening At One Time. If it isn't a well-known cause of death, he thinks, it really ought to be. "Look at him, Thelma, going on like that. Two-leggers, eh?"

"Silly things ought to learn how to put down roots, proper-like. Say, Martha, remember when The Alice came 'round last time? Poor girl_ needed_ a bit of roots to her, I think!"

"Now Edna, that is The Alice you're talking about. Wouldn't do for the Hatter to walk this way and hear you talking about the Queen's Champion like that. Recall Debra?"

"Shame on you, bringing Debra up."

"Awful two-legger, that man."

"He's only sad!"

"He's only mad, you mean!"

"Pining away for the Champion. _Well_, shame on him, setting his hat on the Queen's Champion like he did. Honestly, I don't blame her for leaving. They say The Alice died Aboveland, you know. All because the Hatter drove her away! _If_ he had kept his feelings to himself, well, things'd be a sight different 'round here, and -"

Hamish's gaze flies between the three bickering, gossiping flowers that remind him of the women in his mother's bridge club. He has spent twenty-three years listening to that kind of ignorant snobbery from his mother and her friends, but the difference now is that his mother _isn't_ lurking a corner, waiting to pounce when he says something rude to Lady Such'n'So, or Madame Rich Snobbynose.

"Alice isn't dead!" He snaps, taking a step forward. "She's just fine, you know! I don't know about her having been here before, but if she has been, she wouldn't have ever left because the Hatter had _feelings_ for her! And if he had expressed them to her? No, Alice wouldn't have left."

"Young man, you can't go around talking about the Champion of the White Queen as though _you_ -" Yellow Thelma starts to snap, her petals fluffing around her a vibrant show of irritation. Hamish quickly cuts her off, blood pounding in his ears.

"Actually, I can talk about Alice anyway I like. She's my best mate, I'll have you know."

"The Alice?" Red Martha asks with wonder dripping from her voice. "Truly, you know The Alice?"

"We are friends," Hamish answers her a bit stiffly, nose making a rapid ascent into the air. "Very _good_ friends."

"The Alice died. Everyone knows it," Blue Edna said dismissively, "It's what finally pushed the Hatter all the way 'round the bend, two-legger."

"Well," Hamish flounders only a moment, before he points a finger at them, "She might have died, but she's back now. She's told me all about Wonder – I mean, Underland! _And_ the Hatter. She's terribly fond of him." He directs his full attention to Martha, who is giving him a look of awe.

"Speaking of the Hatter, I have heard a great many stories about him. You wouldn't happen to know where I could find him, would you?"

"We have proper roots," she reminded him with a smile, "So I can't give excellent directions. But when the Hatter comes to see if The Alice is here, he comes from that way." Her stalk bends to Hamish's right, and he smiles widely at her.

"Thank you kindly. I'll be on my way."

"Wait – wait, two-legger! Is it true? Do you really know The Alice?"

"Absolutely," Hamish says firmly as he continues walking. "Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh! She slayed the Jabberwocky, son! And she's my nearest and dearest, of course." He laughs the laugh of a man who is, for the first time in his life, completely free as he follows the tiny trail through the towering garden.

* * *

Hamish is not entirely fond of nature, and despite the fact he's in a magical land, that fact does not change. Certainly not when rocking-horse-flies and dragonflies are, at least at his current stature, the size of small children, and daisies tower over him like trees. His feet hurt, as they are bare, and Hamish had never been the sort to go walking barefoot across the ground. He might have been, if his mother hadn't been terrified he would catch some strange illness from the grass, but as it stands, he has the vague assumption that he may die if too much dirt collects between his toes.

He wishes he had proper footwear, though his loafers are not hiking boots, they would have at least protected his feet from rocks and twigs. He also wishes he had a pair of proper trousers, as every time the wind kicks up, he's pushing his skirt down and crossing his legs, and _that_ is only attractive when Marilyn Monroe strikes the pose. Not when it's a pasty white, freckle-covered, ginger-haired British man with dirty feet, and what he suspects is the beginnings of a sunburn.

Not that he has to worry about the sun much longer. He has walked for hours, and it is falling from the sky. Full darkness will rise soon, and Hamish supposes he will have to do something desperate. Sleep in a tree, or a under a mushroom. He wants to do neither, as he highly suspects something larger then he is will find and eat him while he dreams. Hopefully not a blood sausage, but probably a bird of a prey. _What a way to end_, he is forced to wonder with an obvious wince, _death by owl_.

He walks a while longer, singing to keep himself from being driven completely mad with paranoia as the nighttime sounds of nature come out. Bullfrogs, which means there is water nearby. There are buzzing insects, birds calling and chirping, and Hamish is sure there are larger, scarier things wandering about. He thinks he hears a wolf calling to it's mate (probably to inform it he has found something small and easy to attack – no, something small, red haired, and named Hamish that is easy to attack), prays that isn't so, and breaks into a jog for several steps. Jogging on tender, swollen, probably bleeding feet is not a wise choice, however, and Hamish simply gives up, and curls himself into a ball under a mushroom.

He continues singing, coming too close for comfort to plugging his ears with his fingers.

"Don'tcha wish your girlfriend was hot like me," he has his eyes squeezed shut by this point, and he is wiggling his filthy toes to the beat in his head. He also may be attempting to do a dance while curled on his size, knees tucked just _so_ to protect his modesty. Just because he doubts there are other two feet tall people wandering around the garden, well, that doesn't mean if there _are_ he wants to show them the little lord as a way of greeting. Though it would be highly impressive, he imagines, and perhaps shrines would be built in his honor…"Don'tcha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me? Don'tcha? Yeah, don'tcha?"

"Caterwauling," a silky voice speaks close to Hamish's head, leaving him to choke on a shriek, rock onto his hands and knees, and attempt to gain his feet so he can sprint for safety. The combination of a cramp in his left foot and a floating, talking cat that had monster teeth hovering _this close_ to his face is enough to send him sprawling to the ground, however. He peers at the creature, racking his brain for a name for it. He _knows_ this! "What in the name of Underland was that noise, freckled boy?"

"Chesterfield," Hamish mutters, shaking his head. "No – damn, I can never remember this one!"

The cat gives Hamish a considering sort of look, tail flickering before it disappears.

"Cheshire! The Cheshire Cat! And…Chessur, right? Yeah, your name's Chessur."

"Have we met before?" Hamish twists to the side, and stares at the disembodied cat head. He decides that knowledge it can disappear, reappear only in parts, _and_ talk, makes it only slightly less disturbing when actually faced with such a thing. "If we have, you certainly weren't important enough for me to remember."

"We haven't met," Hamish assures him with an obvious air of irritation, "But Alice draws you quite often. You're one of her favorites."

"Alice?" The cat head spins a circle, before the body appears once more, and the single most disturbing smile Hamish has _ever_ seen stretches across his face. Muzzle. Or is it only dogs that have muzzles? "_The_ Alice?"

"Not for certain," Hamish admits agreeably, "But I'm fairly positive that yes, she is. I've had quite a lot of time to think about it today, and it's like we've always said, really. _Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh_."

"How is it," the tail flickers frantically back and forth before Chessur disappears again, reappearing directly behind Hamish. He struggles to his feet and turns, following the sound of that sly voice. "That you know The Alice?"

"She's my mate," Hamish answers honestly, "Since we were kids. Our mums have embarrassing snaps of us naked in the bath together, and such. When we were children, not now, I mean. Because if I was naked in a bath with a woman, I don't reckon I'd want my mother there."

"But how do _you_ know about me?" The incredibly green, lamp-like green eyes of this Chessur narrow in on Hamish, and he feels rather like a mouse. He decides he doesn't like the feeling, but there's little to be done about when he isn't even wearing _trousers_.

"Alice tells stories," he answers honestly, "And draws pictures. About this place."

"She insisted it was a dream, the last the time she was here," the tail moves rapidly, before Chessur turns upside down and smiles at the moon. "And you aren't, freckles?"

"Well, I thought it was head trauma at first," Hamish admits, "However, Alice and I have spent our entire lives…half in this world, I suppose. Normal children aren't born with entire worlds in their mind, you know. Alice was born with Wonderland inside her, and – er – _people_ like you along with it."

"She remembers us, then?"

"Yes," Hamish answers quickly, firmly. "Very much. When did she come here? When we were children? If she thought it was a dream, then I can see why she didn't tell me..."

"Years before," Chessur flips right side up, and blinks at him a way that looks rather…sad, but only before a moment until the smile is back in place. "Many years before this Alice."

"This Alice?" Hamish repeats, and remembers the spiteful flowers. _They say Alice died Aboveland_…and then Hamish's brain takes turn down a Road of Impossible Things. (Which, given that he is in Underland with a talking, smiling, disappearing-at-will cat, isn't so Impossible, really.)

What if, he muses, those shows on the telly and those books he always scoffed at were right? Reincarnation, past lives…that sort of thing. He's never set much stock in them before, however, it would make a bit of sense. As he'd told Chessur, Alice was born with her Wonderland inside her. So wouldn't it just be possible that it was memories?

They say Alice died in Aboveland…

"How many years?" Hamish asks suddenly, locking eyes with Chessur. "How many years has it been since Alice was last here."

"Several," Chessur's grin widened, more tooth-and-mystery then any sort of humor. "Over a hundred, if Time isn't telling lies to us again."

"Oh," Hamish says a bit weakly. "Well…oh."

"Do you plan on wandering through the Garden for very long?"

"It's not as though I have a map, you know." Hamish bites off. He has a headache from Impossible Things, he can't breathe out of his nose, he isn't wearing trousers, and his feet hurt. To say that he is not in a generous mood is to put it terribly lightly.

"I'll take you to the Hare and the Hatter," Chessur disappears, though his voice remains. "But no further."

"The Hare and the – oh! The Mad Hatter! Tarrant Hightopp? The endless tea party? That _was_ one of our favorite games as children…"

"Come along," Chessur drawls, reappearing farther along the lane. "And tell me, freckles, does she remember our Tarrant fondly?"

"I have a name, you know," Hamish mutters a bit rebelliously, though the trots after Chessur. "Hamish. You might use it."

"I might," Chessur agrees, and Hamish gets the feeling he's being laughed at. "Does she?"

"What, remember the Hatter? Of course she does."

"Fondly?"

"Understatement, that. She used to make me put on a moldy top hat we found in her attic when were children, and put my Gran's thimbles on my fingers. Then she'd call me Hatter and we'd have a mock wedding in the garden."

Chessur chuckles throatily, and it is underlain by a purr.

"Oh my," he drawls, "How very interesting. Come along, freckles, pick your feet up high. It isn't too terribly far."

"Hamish," he says loudly, "That's my name, in case you didn't hear."

"I'm sorry, freckled boy, _did_ you say something?"

"Brilliant," Hamish grumbles, "I got the comedy cat."

* * *

Alice hated having to admit that she was having a Bad Day. Not because of Bootsie escaping, or the pain of having vinaigrette in her eye (which, she was sure, had nearly blinded her for life). No, she was having a Bad Day because it felt as though she was going to crawl out of her skin, and words and images pressed against her mind with such force that it was nearly painful. She feared, some days, that she was going terribly mad. Her father had always, loving reassured her that all the best people were, but sometimes…sometimes it scared Alice.

The world her mind had created, it was so _real_. It was a knifing, lancing pain in her heart when she drew herself from her stories and realized that no matter how long she wrote, no matter how many hours she spent laboring over watercolors and oil portraits, she was never going to sit down and have a rather mindless but enjoyable chat with Mirana, the White Queen of Underland. She was never going to taunt Mallymkun the Dormouse, and dodge stabs from a hatpin sword, or duck from the Mad March Hare Thackery hurling teacups at her head in a cheerful greeting. She was never, not _ever_ going to smile up into the expressive eyes of a strangely handsome Mad Hatter, and hear him lisp the words that had haunted her dreams since she was a child.

"Hatter," she muttered a bit miserably after she pulled on a shirt, and slumped to the bed. The words rolled off her tongue easily, as though she had spoken them before, as though she was relieving a memory. They had an air of sadness about them, and it seemed there was a part of her – deep, deep down – screaming at her to stop and think, _and please don't go_… "Why _is_ a raven like a writing desk?"

_I haven't the slightest idea_, she heard in her mind, and the smile that came with it wasn't Mad at all. It was only broken, and fragile, and all her fault.

Alice put her hands over her face, breathing deeply.

"Stop, Alice," she told herself sternly, "We've gone through this. Life is what it is, and you can't live in a fantasy world. I am _stronger_ then this!"

_I __**make**__ the path!_

"Not helping," Alice informed the voice in the back of her mind rather miserably, before she fell backwards across the bed, tossing her arm up to shield her eyes. "Really, mind, you _are_ useless!"

* * *

Hamish has imagined meeting the Mad Hatter several times. As a child it had been his life goal, though he told his mother it was to be a well-established solicitor like his Granddad Melvin. It always went something along the lines of the March Hare tossing a spoon at him, Mallymkun demanding they duel for their honor – the reasons often changed, but it was mostly over the last scone on the table – and the Mad Hatter doing handstands in his chair and telling Alice that girls had cooties, there was no way he was going to do something as repulsive as kiss her. (Because Alice was always with him in those fantasies, as Alices ought to always be with a Hamish.)

For the past few hours he has updated that fantasy a bit.

There will be spoon throwing, and dueling – he'll win, but only by a bit, and by ingenious use of a fork – and the Mad Hatter will be so thrilled to hear about Alice being alive and well, he'll make Hamish a pair of trousers. Hamish is so pleased over the thought of trousers, that it very nearly moves him to tears. After his bits have been properly covered, the Hatter will come up with some Mad way to bring Alice back to her Wonderland, and after a large meal and at least eight hours of sleep, he and Alice will be free to run wild. They will ride the Bandersnatch, they will meet the Queen, and Alice will no doubt end up making an idiot out of herself in front of Tarrant Hightopp. In fact, he knows she will, because a woman cannot obsessively stalk a supposedly fictional character she created for the entirety of her life _without_ making an idiot of herself when she finds out said supposedly fictional character is real and standing in front of her, in all his thimbled glory.

And _then_, Hamish imagines with relish, _then_, one day, Alice can introduce him to their mothers.

"This is Tarrant," he can hear her saying, "You know, the Mad Hatter that you _told me wasn't real_." His mother will faint. Helen Kingsleigh will probably impale herself with a salad fork when she realizes she is staring at her future son-in-law, and Charles Kingsleigh will be so pleased he might attempt the Futterwacken himself. Because that is sort of bloke Charles is, and Hamish admires him greatly.

Hamish will look back on that meeting, and feel stupid for imagining it going so well. His fantasies never match reality, and the night he finally convinced Marianna Smythe to shag him should have proved it.

He is exhausted, bone weary in a way he has never been before. His stomach is convinced his throat has been slit, and his feet finally went numb, though he suspects they are bleeding. He has flashed Chessur three times due to wind gusts, and the blasted cat made incredibly snarky comments each time. The sort that leave a bloke with feelings of inadequacy for life. When they top a hill, and the trees break into a clearing, and he lays eyes on a decrepit looking windmill (the exact same as it is in Alice's drawings!), and a long tea table with a shadowed figure in the wingback chair at the end –

Well, that nearly moves Hamish to tears, as well. If only he can get his legs to work properly, he is going to eat _everything _on it. Possibly the china as well, because he has never in his life been so starved.

"Alice?" The voice comes from the chair at the end – the Hatter, Hamish rightly assumes, because that is always where he is at when Alice draws them at tea. "_Alice_?"

That voice nearly breaks Hamish, exhausted and surly as he is. It is so…_hopeful_ and yet disbelieving, that Hamish wishes more then ever that Alice is with him.

The Hatter lunges from his chair, and is walking across the table by the time Chessur gives a soft,

"Uh-oh," and disappears entirely.

"_Nae more sal'_," Thackery howls blindly as he wakes up, "_Late, yer late fer tea! Fork in the eye, aye, aye_!"

"Alice!" The Hatter cries again, halfway across the table.

"Uh," Hamish hurries as best he can until he is out of shadows and entirely revealed in the moonlight, "Not quite. But, um, I hope she'll be here shortly. _Actually_, I was hoping you might know a way to get her here. She's my friend, see, and -"

The Hatter _hurtles_ himself at Hamish. And as for Hamish, he is so slowed by exhaustion and what he is sure is starvation, that he can do nothing more then blink. Moonlight drapes shadows over the Hatter's face, but Hamish is positive the darkness surrounding the man's eyes has nothing to do with the lighting. And his eyes – oh, his eyes are the most disturbing shade of orange, nearing on a violent red, that Hamish as ever seen.

"_Yer nae Alice_!" The Hatter _howls_ at Hamish, moments before he picks him up around the chest. Hamish shrieks – because, really, there is no other choice in that sort of situation – flailing widely. Stars explode as shocks of searing pain hit him, and he is sure his ribs are about to be shattered in the tight grasp the Hatter has him in. His teeth very nearly rattle, as he is shaken back-and-forth, side-to-side, while the Hatter screams at him. "_Yer nae Alice, ye gutler's scut! Ye slurking urpal slackush scum, ye_ -!"

"_Rape, rape_!" Hamish began to yowl, feet flailing as his handkerchief gave up the fight and fell from his body. "_Stranger danger, stranger danger – someone help me_!"

"Hatta!" Mallymkun shrieks, crawling out of a teapot and brandishing her hatpin sword in a vaguely threatening manner. "Hatta! Stop!"

"_Slunking ur-pals, __**barloom muck egg brimni**_–!"

A teacup, thrown by Thackery, whizzes through the air, and smashes into the Hatter's skull. The Hatter stumbles forward, dropping Hamish. Hamish, for his part, scrambles to his feet and runs towards the Mad March Hare, who – sadly enough – seems the safest option at this particular moment.

"_Fez_," the Hatter wheezes violently, before spinning around. Hamish ducks under the tea table, though he peaks out from under the tablecloth, gasping violently for air. His ribs protest, but his lungs insist upon it. "I'm fine. I'm – I – tea trays in the sky, is that a naked fellow?"

"_You just tried to kill me_!" Hamish shouts, pointing accusingly at him. "_And I wouldn't be naked if you hadn't shaken my handkerchief off_!"

"Oh, I…" Tarrant pauses, and something that Hamish is very close to a very ancient, still painful sorrow fills his eyes. "I am _terribly_ sorry," he lisps, "I…I lost myself. I'll butter my ears for it!"

"_Butter ears_!" Thackery shouts, before falling off his chair, hugging a serving tray to his chest.

"Tarrant, do something useful and pour some tea, won't you? Freckles needs a cup." Chessur drawls, before settling into the chair in front of Mallymkun.

"Tea and Upelkuchen," Thackery says wisely, before his eyes grow wide, and he peers at his distorted reflection in the severing tray. "_Shiny_…"

"Good heavens," Hamish gasps, "Alice was right, you're all terribly mad."

"Alice?" Tarrant asks sharply, striding forward, only to drop to his knees and give Hamish a look that is somewhere between threatening and pleading. "Ye said _Alice_?"

"Ah -_hem_," Chessur clears his throat, before shaking his head several times, his tail whipping violently in his agitation. Due to his position, Hamish cannot see it, and stumbles forward rather blindly.

"Yes, Alice, you – you _brute_!"

"Ye ken _my Alice_?"

"_Your Alice_?" Hamish shouts, waving his finger at the Hatter. "Oh, _that's rich_! You tried to_ kill me_, her _best friend_, and she's _your Alice_? She and I are going to have a very long discussion about lusting after mad men, you know, and I doubt -"

"_Where is my Alice_?" The Hatter bends forward, hands hovering – suddenly – so close to Hamish that he is sure he is about to be crushed again. "_Where is she_!"

"_Listen, you – you fruitily colored clown_!" Hamish bellows, emerging entirely from under the table, and completely uncaring of his state of undress. He jabs a finger at Tarrant so viciously that it pokes the other man in the nose, and the Madness clouding Tarrant's eyes recedes. "_I have fallen down a bloody Rabbit Hole, into a world I thought was entirely of my best friend's creation and not real at all! I have been forced to wear my handkerchief, I have flashed several flowers, trees, and that bloody Cat – I am exhausted, starving, the size of a doll, and __**naked**__! If anyone is going to be having a fit of rage, __**it is going to be me**_!"

Hamish is bellowing louder then he has _ever_ bellowed before by the end of it. It feels amazingly good, and he thinks he ought to make it a practice to shout at the top of his lungs at least once a month. Wonderful stress relief, that.

Tarrant says_ nothing_. He blinks several times, though, as though he simply cannot believe a two-feet-tall, naked, ginger-haired Hamish Ascot has just beaten him in a shouting match.

"_Now_," Hamish says firmly, "I am more then willing to tell you all about Alice, and what she is doing. However, I am very naked at the moment, and in Alice's stories, you can make clothing very quickly. I demand trousers!"

Tarrant blinks a few more times. And then –

"Alice…remembers me?" Hamish is almost touched by the soft, wondering lisp. _Almost_.

"_Trousers_!" He roars, waving his fists, "_I demand trousers_!"

"He has much muchness," Mallymkun decides with a firm nod, before crawling back into her teapot. "Wake me if something exciting happens, won't you, Chess?"

"Trousers," Tarrant repeats, "Trousers – I – yes, of course, _trousers_! Oh, my – of _course_!" He pushes himself to his feet, and flees towards the windmill, shouting about Upelkuchen and fabric.


	4. Chapter Four

**Story: Yesterday I Was A Different Person**

**Rating: T (For the moment)**

**Genre(s) Humor, romance**

**Summary: ****Alice Kingsleigh lived in a fantasyland of pocket-watch carrying rabbits, teatime with a Mad Hatter she has always felt a bit more fondly of then any person should feel about a fictional character from their own mind, and a smiling cat that is forever on the prowl for a finely crafted top hat. Then she steps through a Looking Glass into the vast world of Underland, where her childhood stories and constant dreamtime companions are flesh-and-fur real.**

**A/N: Ho snap, ya'll, Chapter Four nearly gave me a brain tumor. But here it is. I know it's rather different in tone from previous chapters, but I do hope you enjoy it. I didn't want to downplay Alice during this situation, and…I could talk about this forever. Best to let you lot get on with reading it. As always, many thanks to CrazySpark, who makes sure my tenses don't cross, and there are no randomly placed words. Also, thank you so much for all the reviews and kind words you've given me and this story (even the anonymous review: it was wonderful, and it DID bring a smile to my, so not a worry in the world over it not coming without a profile or name; it made my day!), I really am glad there are so many people who are enjoying it. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland in any form. For that matter, I don't own Johnny Depp, which you should be aware of, as his Hatter!Likeness is being used here. If he goes up on Ebay, though…sorry, need to go trim my horns down at **_**that**_** thought. **

"Oi! Alice!" Alice jumped like a puppet on strings when Hamish's voice burst into her bedroom, bouncing off the walls, loud but tinny, as though was on a phone. She bolted upright, arm leaving her eyes as she looked towards the door to her room at the Ascot's, which she found to be shut. She couldn't explain why, had no _reason_ for it, really, but her stomach twisted it's self into a tight knot, her nerves jumping and singing under her skin as though she was about to come under attack, or as though she was at a part in a movie where something startling would occur.

"I've gone completely mad," Alice informed the empty air, eyes jumping frantically around as she took to her feet, spinning around several times, head jerking from side-to-side – even up and down – in her attempts to find Hamish. "I'm hearing voices, now."

"You've always heard voices," the strange projection of Hamish's voice grumbled, and it was only by chance that Alice's eyes landed on the large mirror over her rather elegant looking vanity. The glass rippled and wavered, as though it was a pond and Alice had only just thrown a handful of pebbles onto its surface. It distorted the image of Alice (pale, blue eyes large and vivid and dark in her angular face; hands trembling, surrounded by Prudence's choices of cream and rosebud-pink walls, curtains, bedding, even the dressing gown that was tossed across the end of Alice's bed), and warped a reflection that Was Not. It was Hamish, wearing something that shimmered with pearlescent, iridescent light, his fingers straining forward as though he was diving through water, attempting to break surface. Behind him was a face Alice knew as well as Hamish's, held as close and as dear as anyone else in her life.

The man's eyes were vividly yellow, bright, and animalistic. His skin was pale, pasty, inhuman; smudges of orange and blush and red ringed his eyes, his cheeks, darkened his lips. He reached forward, looking crazed and scared and _possessed_.

"Alice," she swore she heard echoing through the room, a voice that was no longer a memory but as far away as Hamish's, "_My Alice_…"

"_The fuck_!" Alice spat, one hand circling her throat, fingertips pressing against her pulse, chest heaving as she took a single, shocked step backwards.

"Laddie," Alice began to shake as that voice came again, farther away then Hamish's, but every bit as _real_ as her friend's. "Brace yerself."

"_Get your hands off my bum, you _–" Hamish shrieked moments before the mirror rippled _violently_, almost like waves crashing against the face of craggy cliffs, and then he was clinging to the edges of her vanity mirror, one foot knocking over perfume and lotion bottles, the other _inside the mirror_.

"_Heave-ho_!" Came a roaring cry from behind him, the sound of crashing china, and Hamish yelped as he jerked violently, tumbling forwards. The thick rug muffled the crash of his body, and he lay on the floor, blinking, dazed, at the ceiling.

"Hamish," Alice asked in what she was surprised to hear was a voice that was mostly calm, and she positive no one could really blame her for the trembling that lay on the edges of her words. "You…just came out of my mirror."

"Looking Glass travel," Hamish said in a rather dazed fashion, "I was assured it was one of the best ways to go. Not nearly as fine as by Hat, but I was also assured that Hat travel couldn't get me back here."

"Hat?" Alice repeated rather dumbly, shaking her head. "I – you mean, like –"

"Yeah, like when you rode Tarrant's Hat, before he was captured by the Knave."

"Not me," Alice said thickly, "No, that wasn't me, that's a story. A story, Hamish. And Looking Glass travel is only – is only a story -"

"And yet here I am," Hamish sat up, raking his hands through his hair. It stuck up at odd, gravity defying angles. He grinned at her, wide and beaming, the sort he gave when he suggested a _Lord of the Rings_ marathon. Alice felt her knees begin to tremble. "How long have I been gone? Chessur said Time passes differently between the worlds."

"Chessur?" Alice nearly whimpered, before licking her lips. "Its – its half past."

"Thirty minutes? Is that all, really?"

"Yes. Where…where's Bootsie?"

"Eaten by something, I hope," Hamish said firmly as he pushed onto his arms, and then up to his feet. He winced a bit, staring down past his loose trousers, to his bare feet. He wiggled his toes, and Alice was close to horrified when she saw dirt and what seemed to be dried blood on his skin. He clapped his hands suddenly, grinning at her again. "Well, what are we waiting for? Put your knickers back in your bag, I'm going to go back, and then we're off!"

"Off _where_, Hamish?"

"Your Wonderland, of course!" Hamish bounced frantically in place, before he gave up and lunged for her. He grabbed her arms, kissing her cheeks several times before swinging her in a tight circle that nearly knocked them both over. "It's real, Alice! Underland is _real_!"

"No," Alice whispered, "No, Hamish. It's not. Is this reverse psychology?"

"Alice," Hamish said rather firmly, "I just came out of a Looking Glass, didn't I?"

"I…yes. Yes, you did."

"Look at this sunburn," Hamish pointed at his bare arms, lifted his shirt and shoved off his red stomach and chest. "I had to walk through the Garden in my handkerchief, Alice. And then Chessur found me – blasted Cat – and he took me to Thackery's windmill. And they were having tea! A very old tea, mind you, it really is an endless tea party, there. And Tarrant tried to kill me, but then he made me trousers – I look dashing, don't I?" Hamish struck a pose, modeling his trousers and breezy tunic, before he continued speaking.

"And then Thackery made some food, which was fantastic, really. I don't care how insane he is, and even if he insists it was all made out of tree – which I really don't think it was, but if those were tree sandwiches, I'll have a thousand. Best thing I've had in ages! And we talked about you. You really did slay the Jabberwocky, Alice! Quite some time ago, of course. We've discussed it, and we really do believe that it was you in a past life! So you came back – you know, reincarnation, what you and Sarah in the flat below us are always nattering on about, reincarnation and, who is that, Ghost Hunters? Those plumbers? Yes, well, reincarnation, and that's why we've always played Wonderland! Why you draw it, and all that! Because you remember!"

Alice stared, mind spinning violent circles.

_Why is a raven like a writing desk…?_

_How's __**this**__ for muchness?_

_Anyone can go by horse or rail, but the absolute __**best**__ way to travel is by Hat! _

Alice jerked away from Hamish's grasp, pushing past him to dart for her bed. She began to flip wildly through her sketchbook, one hand dragging out the second – her Mostly Secret one – from her overnight bag. Her eyes traced the pictures frantically, taking in the characters, the – her _friends_, her _enemies_, her _Hatter_…

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the JubJub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!"

"Alice?" Hamish asked worriedly, hovering behind her, hand outstretched, though he couldn't quite bring himself to touch her, it seemed. Alice paid him very little mind as her throat caught in her throat, and a tear trickled down her cheek.

Her whole life she had spent half in her own mind, in such a fantastical, beautiful world. Her entire life, every blasted day, it had been a pain to know that it was not real. That her desire for a world beyond the ordinary, a world where Hatters were Mad and the White Queen was good and kind; where the March Hare was completely insane but a dear, sweet friend, and a Bandersnatch lay waiting, brokenhearted and sighing, for his friend to return…Alice had longed and _ached_ and wept and _bled_ for that world.

Her entire life she had told herself, every day, every minute, every goddamn _second_ that it was not – was absolutely not – real.

Not real, _not real, __**not real**_!

"One, two! One, two! And through and through, The Vorpal Blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head, he went galumphing back."

"Uh," she heard Hamish breath rather worriedly, stepping closer, his body warm against her back, his hand gentle on her shoulder, "Alice-bear?"

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O Frabjous Day! Callooh! Callay! He chortled his joy. He _chortled_, Hamish, and wanted to come to _my_ arms, and…and…"

Alice began to cry, tossing away the sketchbook, open on the image of Hamish in his handkerchief, looking smug and satisfied and ready to face Underland.

"Alice?" Hamish questioned again, sounded quite worried indeed.

"'Twas brillig," Alice whispered brokenly as she opened her Mostly Secret sketchbook, the one that contained every desire and wish her heart could possible make. Page after page after _page_ was filled with the Hatter – her Mad Tarrant Hightopp, with his half broken mind, and wise eyes, and kind words, and beautiful, scarred hands. She had wept for his Clan on afternoons spent with her own family, hiding in cupboards or the pantry, wondering at the unfairness of her soul to appreciate such a kind life when this man had no one in the world to truly call his _own_. She had grieved the loss of a dear friend in the early morning sunlight, hands stretched out over an empty pillow where a head should have rested, a head rarely bare of Hat and only _in_ their bed – grieved because her soul so dearly missed its other half, and that half was not real, _not real, __**not real**_**!**

She had _broken_ on those nights, with her empty bed and cold sheets, and just her, just Alice. Not Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh of her mind and stories, of the dreams – wishes – _memories_ that spun circles in her mind, her heart. Just Alice, Alone Alice, bereft and hating herself and wondering if her sanity was fractured like her favorite mug, chipped and cracked, handle glued back on. Serviceable and well loved, but broken, obviously broken. Because what she wanted – who she wanted – was in her heart, her mind, her sketchbook and the easel in the living room, where she could soak in the evening sunlight or watch the rain, where she could twirl her brush and dip it with mauve and paint shadows that line his eyes, eyes that she wanted to look into when they weren't oil or charcoal or water colors.

But he was not real, _not real, __**not real**_– and she knew that because she had told herself that every day, every minute, every goddamn _second_ of her life –

"And the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe; all mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe. That's all about me, you know." She turned her head, met Hamish's scared eyes before her knees went weak and she crashed to the floor.

Not real, _not real, __**not real**_…!

"It's not real," she whispered, "It's not, Hamish."

"It is, Alice!" He bent down, face close to hers, lips pressing warm, moist, best-friend-you're-safe-please-don't-cry-Alice kisses to her cheeks, and nose, and forehead before he leaned away and gave her a bright, scared, trembling, _hopeful_ smile. "I promise, Alice! They're waiting for us, on the other side of that Looking Glass. For _you_! We'll take tea, and go to Marmoreal. We'll visit the White Queen! They'll be parties, I suspect, when her Champion comes home. We'll ride the Bandersnatch, we'll see if the Hatter'll teach us how to Futterwacken, we'll go see things that you didn't get to see, last time. We'll make new stories, Alice, you and me! We'll have a great Adventure in Underland, because it's _real_, I swear, Alice!"

Hamish had always, _always_, been the solid rock of Alice's world. He let her fly when she couldn't keep on the ground, but he tugged her back to safety before she was so lost she couldn't find her way back. And if he…if Hamish was standing front of her, with fire in his eyes, trembling from head-to-toe in hope and fear and excitement…if _Hamish_…

"New stories?" Alice whispered, while Hamish wiped the tears from her cheeks with soft fingers.

"New stories," he promised, "Hundreds, thousands!"

"We're going to Wonderland?"

"Wonderland!" Hamish shouted, standing straight and doing a silly looking sort of jig. "We're going to Alice's Wonderland, Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh!"

"_Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh_!" Alice cheered, throwing her hands into the air, where Hamish grabbed them, pulling her to her feet. "Come on, Hamish, move, move! Let's pack – we'll need to take a few things, of course!"

"_Of course_!" Hamish bellowed, pointing to his once again wiggling toes. "Like shoes! Honestly, Alice, sensible shoes are _needed_ in Wonderland! And trousers. But the Hatter was kind enough supply me with these trousers, and I am forever in his debt. Even if he did try and shake me to death."

"I thought you looked fetching in your handkerchief," Alice snagged her usual sketchbook again, waggling her most recent drawing at him. He stared at it, a bit horrified, burnt cheeks reddening even further. "Rather like Tarzan."

"Blast," Hamish muttered, "I can't keep anything from you, can I?"

* * *

Alice stood in front of her vanity with its knocked over bottles and the music box that was on it's side, costume jewelry from her childhood spilling out from it to pool in glittering beads of purple and yellow and blue. She stood there, staring at her reflection, catching the way the Looking Glass rippled here and there, as though it was becoming impatient for her to step forward and into Underland. She couldn't seem to make herself move, to pick up her feet, one foot to the little chair, the second to polished wood of the vanity top. Her head first, then arms, and Hamish behind her pushing at her thighs, helping her through, following her into the brave new world they had always longed to be a part of.

She stood there, and stared, and couldn't move.

It was _real_. (Not real, _not real, __**not real**_ that frantic voice inside her shrieked, unsure and hesitant, afraid it was a joke, a dream, a Nightmare.) Hamish wouldn't lie to her, not about this. He knew, was one of the few that _truly knew_, how terribly her younger years had gone; Alice had been so lost, so trapped by the flood of images and words in her mind that it had been nearly impossible for her to function. She saw White Rabbits on London street corners, visited New York and swore that the Tweedles were calling to her from the bushes in Central Park. And she had kept quiet and silent, hands over her mouth, knuckles white, hiding in her room – Hamish's room – the garden - the shed - anywhere safe, where there were no eyes to watch her break apart and question her own mind. Only Hamish saw, only Hamish understood that there were fractures in her soul, behind her eyes, fractures that threatened to split open and devour her, eat her alive and leave nothing left but skin and bones and bits of golden hair that made up an Alice-shape but wasn't Alice at all.

No. Hamish would never, never lie to her. Not about _this_. Not about _anything_, but never her Wonderland.

When they grew older, when Alice learned how control it all a bit better, Hamish still watched her with scared eyes. Tried to be threatening and surly when she brought blokes home; Franklin, an aspiring fashion designer, with bits of fabric scraps clinging to his clothing and needle pricked fingers; Thomas, who worked in the tea shop near their flat, who smelled of Ceylon tea leaves and old books; Spencer, who had been Alice's elder by several years, and had a deep devotion to weaponry – and a particular flare for swordsmanship. When each of those relationships had quickly burnt out, it had been Hamish who curled up with her on their sofa, eating ice cream out of the carton with her, insisting that it wasn't her fault, not entirely, not really.

But it was. They both knew, in a way, it was. She liked _aspects_ of those men, but the not men themselves; they reminded her just enough of a man that they could never be that she wanted to cling to them, mold them into what she wanted. She couldn't, in the end; she knew in the beginning it was impossible, really.

But…but _now_…

Now Hamish was standing behind her, hand warm and strong and comforting on her shoulder, waiting for her to step through the Looking Glass and into _that world_. Her mind was awhirl with all the possible outcomes; all of them, she was rather disgusted say, involved the Hatter. Half of them involved him being terrified by the strange, foreign, Hatter Obsessed young woman that come through the mirror. The other halves were certainly adult rated, and a few of them involved light bondage.

The _important_ question really was what Alice was going to do when she stepped through the Looking Glass, if it was Really Real.

Hug the Hatter? Tell her she missed him? Apologize for not making it back before he knew it? (As she had dreamed, for years, of telling him those words even though they tasted like ashes on her tongue, bitter and cold and hurtful and she _hated them, hated them, hated them_…) Grab him around the neck, drag him to the floor, and work out twenty-three years worth of fantasies out on him? No. Certainly not the last option. Well – not at first. Possibly…no. She couldn't do that. He was probably nothing like the Tarrant in her head, really, nothing at all. He probably put too much sugar in his tea, and slurped, and liked women with large bosoms. Which Alice didn't have, so she didn't need to worry about how to act around him, because he wouldn't be interested in her in that way – no, not that way, and –

"You're thinking too much," Hamish said softly, and his reflection showed off his fond, knowing grin. She blushed and elbowed him lightly in the stomach, before gesturing towards the Looking Glass. "Well. You know, we don't know when we'll come back. If we'll come back."

"Alice, I would never forgive myself if we didn't take this chance. You've never really belonged here, anyway. And I've spent too many years with you to go anywhere you're not."

"I thought I was the one that always dragged you into Adventures head first."

"S'my turn, now," Hamish laughed, rocking forward to kiss the side of her head. "As soon as we get there, and you get your land legs back, I promise, I'll let you drag me anywhere."

"Anywhere?"

"Mostly anywhere."

"No, you said anywhere, first. I'm holding you to it, Hammy."

"Anywhere," Hamish tried to sound put-upon, but his twinkling eyes gave it all away. "Fine, you win. But I get to drag you about once a week on an Adventure of my choosing."

"Once a month."

"Three times a month."

"Twice, final offer."

"Deal."

"Brilliant. Now – do we have everything?"

"Four pairs extra trousers," Hamish patted his overnight bag, "And three pairs of shoes, discounting the ones I'm wearing. I'm _ready_. You?" (

"Sketchbooks and supplies," Alice patted her bag, smiling, "Clean knickers and a whole bottle of perfume. I can take on the world."

"How about Underland?"

"Underland is good, too. Queen Alice, how's it sound?"

"Terrifying," Hamish laughed, pushing her forward, "Go on, Majesty. Let's put some new dust on our shoes."

"Hamish?" Alice paused before turning around, her eyes large, lower lip trembling. "Hammy, I…I'm scared."

"I know," Hamish whispered, grabbing her hand, kissing her temple. "Only one way to prove it's real, though, Alice-bear."

"Through the Looking Glass. Yes, I know."

"What are you waiting for, then? Big, bad, brave Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh."

"Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh," she said firmly as she turned around and stepped forward, stretching her arms out to grip the edges of the mirror as she took one step to the little chair, another to the top of the vanity. "_Absolutely_ Alice Kingsleigh!"

"Absolutely!" Hamish shouted gleefully behind her.

"Madness?" Alice raged loudly, laughter making her words ripple, "This is _Underland_!"

"_Raaaugh_!" Hamish bellowed dramatically, before his foot met her bum, and Alice was pressing through the mirror. It clung to her, thicker then water, soft as silk, and it had the scent of dreams and bonfires and captured moon glow. It was like being born, passing from womb to world, sliding free of the body that had created life, into the moment where new lungs drew first breath and –

Alice topples to a dusty wooden floor, Hamish seconds behind her, and then he is literally on top of her. Her overnight bag is wedged between their bodies; his had flung forward and managed to whack them both sharply on the sides of their heads. Hamish grumbles loudly, pushing his bag away, raising up and moving hers, before his hands around her waist and he's dragging her to her feet. Alice catches a brief impression of a nice sized room with an old, lonely looking bed, yellow lace curtains, and more dust and cobwebs then is generally accepted outside of a haunted mansion in a horror movie.

Next she knows her feet are off the ground, and Hamish is swinging her in wide, dizzying circles. She realizes he's laughing, laughing like a little boy with a new bike. And she is laughing as well, it's gurgling out of her throat and spilling out of her body with relief and disbelief and joy, and there are tears burning her eyes, dripping hot down her cheeks. She hides her face in Hamish's neck, loops her arms tightly around him and she squeezes him as they fly around the room, laughing and lightheaded and out of their minds, and so happy it hurts. It _hurts_, that bubble of joy in her chest, expanding like a sun, a supernova going out with a _bang_.

"Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh, Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh!" Hamish is chanting into her hair, and she's kicking her feet like a little girl until they slam into a wall and tumble downwards, back onto the dirty, dusty floor again.

Alice finds she can't stop laughing, is shocked and a bit horrified to hear it sounds something like sobs.

"It's real," she breathes, grabbing Hamish by the ears and shaking him violently, side-to-side and then front-to-back. "It's real, Hammy, we're in Wonderland!"

"It's real," he promises – he _swears_ – and Alice is relieved to see his eyes are bright, and she isn't the only one making a complete idiot out of herself.

"Alice?" The voice breaks their the din of their hysterical giggles, jerks two pairs of eyes to the side, where a tall man in a battered but finely made top hat is standing in the doorway. His eyes flicker like a mood ring being passed rapidly from one person to another – gold, yellow, green, violet, sky blue, gray – his red mouth weak, trembling. He steps forward, long, thimbled fingers shaking, one hand reaching out towards her. "Alice? My…Alice?"

Alice doesn't know what to do, or what to say. She can't even let go of Hamish, she can only stare, and drink in the sight of Tarrant Hightopp looking at her as though his world had cracked apart and was being put back together, as though she is air and life and light and every cup of tea he'll ever need. It makes her heart jump and jitter, makes her breath falters violently because he is _real_ – he is standing in front of her, and she had imagined this, so many times. But what to do? It's not her mind, a story, a drawing, a dream; it's real, he's real, _right there_, saying her name as though it's a prayer that keeps him alive.

"How could I forget you?" She hears herself say, before spots start to dance in front of her eyes, and pain begins to pulse at her temples. "Hatter."

"_Alice_!"

"Oi!" Hamish sounds amused and outraged all at once when he shoved aside, when the Hatter is grabbing Alice and pulling her upright, standing her on her feet even as he sinks to his knees and presses his face into the warm fabric of the shirt covering her stomach. Alice doesn't know what to do with her hands, her arms; they flutter uselessly, before one curls up on his shoulder, the other tightly gripping one end of the sash tied around his wonderful Hat.

"Alice, Alice, _Alice_…"

"Real," Alice answers him, "_Real, __**real**_!"

It seems as though there is a song on the wind, in her mind, pulsing through her blood and into her heart. A beat that throbs through her skull and makes her skin burn and knees shake, and it is only worsens when the Hatter's hands leave her hips, find hot flesh lurking under thin cotton. His thimbles are cold, his bandages are smooth, and his flesh is calloused and rough; it feels like heaven on her stomach, her sides, and desire lances hard and hot and _fierce_ through Alice, who had wanted him since before she understood what wanting was, and never thought she'd be in this situation. There is still a voice in her mind, though, a voice telling her not to act to quickly, that Underland was not always what it seemed, and the Hatter might weep at her reappearance but how was she to know if he'd spent his nights mourning the fact she wasn't in his bed, wrapped around his body, kissing all the scars she could find on his soul and his flesh? She couldn't, and so she shouldn't touch him, pull him close, fall on her knees and kiss him like a woman in love or lust or madness until she knew, until she is _sure_ –

_Welcome home, Champion_, the song in her blood sings vibrantly, _Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh, we've waited along time for your return_.

"_Alice_!" The Hatter is whimpering blindly, and her t-shirt has ridden up, and his lips are damp on her stomach. It is almost painful, that feeling, that want, _having him there_ –

"Oh," Alice whispers, tipping her face back and smiling broadly, "I'm home, I think."

"Home," the Hatter breathes, "_Home_," he sobs, and his hands are going to leave bruises and Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh has never been so happy in her entire life.

"Get a room," Hamish mutters from the corner, "Or I'm sending Thackery in."

"I need to sit down," Alice looks directly at Hamish when she speaks, before turning her dazed eyes on the tilted Hat and violently curling orange hair before her. "I…need to sit. I'm very dizzy."

"Sit!" The Hatter jumps to his feet, even his hair trembling as he releases her as though she's burnt him, his chest heaving violently, "Alice! Are ye – are ye alrigh'?"

"I just need to sit," Alice let out a breath, putting one hand to her head, "I have – the strangest – I have a headache."

"Jet lag," Hamish said knowingly, before he was on his feet, arm around her waist (Alice caught the look she darted the wild eyed Hatter; something manly and protective and she really didn't know Hamish had that much testosterone in his body), guiding her from the room. "Come on, let's go."

He takes her through the windmill house, outside into a rosy morning. She bursts into tears at the sight of the tea table, clinging to Hamish's arm, pointing violently at it with one finger.

"I know," he assures her, "I know. Come on – the Hatter makes wonderful tea, and I think you need a cuppa."

"_Yer late fer tea_!" Thackery bellows violently, before a teacup goes swooshing past Alice's ear.

"I am!" Alice is horrified to hear herself blubbering, "I am, but I'm back now, Thackery!"

"_About time if yer askin' me_!" He roars, before he giggling madly as he pours tea. Two sugars, drop of milk – just how Alice likes it. Hamish sets her down, Thackery _hands_ her the tea, though to balance that act out a fork flies through the air and nearly takes off the trailing-behind Hatter's Hat. "Drink yer tea, lassling, yer late an' we've wasted enough good tea waitin' on ye ta come home! Ye silly, silly – _cup_…" Ears over his eyes, Thackery retreats into his Madness, and Alice suspects – in this case, at least – it is cover up the fact his large eyes are shimmering with tears, and his nimble paws are shaking.

"'Bout time," is the only Mallymkun says, before she crawls into a teapot, and out of view.

"Alice-bear?"

"Mm, Hammy?"

"…We're in Wonderland."

"Yes. Yes, we are." They grin widely at each other, before Alice drops her head on Hamish's shoulder, and takes her first drink of Underlandian tea.


	5. Chapter Five

**Story: Yesterday I Was A Different Person**

**Rating: T (for the moment)**

**Genre(s): Humor, Romance**

**Summary: ****Alice Kingsleigh lived in a fantasyland of pocket-watch carrying rabbits, teatime with a Mad Hatter, and a smiling cat that is forever on the prowl for a finely crafted top hat. Then she steps through a Looking Glass into the vast world of Underland, where her childhood stories and constant dreamtime companions are flesh-and-fur real.**

**A/N: Ho. Snap. Bitches. This chapter clocks in at 7, 280 words – the largest yet – and it seriously got out of hand. Also, this fic has grown. It is now threatening to become Epic, and I am Not Amused. Oh, well, it happens, I suppose. Hope you all enjoy this chapter. Thank you all for your kind reviews and words – they really do make my whole day! Much love and thanks and my life-long devotion go to my beta CrazySpark for putting up with my tense-switching, word forgetting, and general lack of spelling skills. ****As usual, constructive criticism is always welcome, as anyway I can improve as a writer is a Good Thing. **

**Also, **_**Tanta**_** is term that basically translates out to **_**daddy**_**. Just, y'know, FYI.**

**In response to Annonymous: To your first question, it's not a matter of getting stuck creatively. It's just making the words fit right. They like to knot up on me, tricky buggers. As far as the second goes, the issue of Time and how it flows will be addressed later on. It's certainly not a constant ratio – kind of…whatever Time wants. He's a bit wishy-washy like that.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland in any form. I do own all original characters…or they own me. Something like that.**

The exhaustion is catching up with Hamish quickly; certainly when Alice's head is resting on his arm, warm and comforting and everything he's ever known in life. Underland is no less of an Adventure with Alice at his side – no, it is even_ more_ of an Adventure, just waiting for them to let themselves loose – but he is certain that Adventures, Bandersnatches, and learning how to Futterwacken can wait. His feet ache, his muscles are sore, and his sun burn is insisting to his nerves that several hot pokers have been lodged under his skin, and it has shrunk two sizes to small for his body on top of that. Alice against him is a bit uncomfortable, but after traveling to another world and returning home only long enough to grab her and go back to it, the pain is worth it.

He takes a drink of his tea, loops his arm around Alice's shoulders, and smiles at Tarrant Hightopp. The man is in his chair, settled into the wingback like a brooding, frizzy haired angel of vengeance who has forgotten his flaming sword. He hasn't said a word since they left the dusty room in Thackery's windmill cottage, only been able to dart his eyes between Alice and Hamish and back again. Or rather, he stares at Alice with a flood of emotions Hamish can't entirely understand – wonder, awe, lust, desperation, what looks a bit like obsession and probably is, and Hamish isn't sure he _likes_ that – before his eyes move to Hamish, and he's being glared down by a bright-eyed monster of jealousy. Jealousy, he discovers, is not green. It flickers between bright yellow and burning orange, and there are hints of red to it.

Hamish resists the urge – but only just – to stick his tongue out at the man. Just because Alice has been obsessing about him since they were children doesn't give him the right to give Hamish the sort of look that could have made trees catch flame at twenty paces, for nothing more then wrapping his arm around Alice. Tarrant and Alice had a…friendship, of sorts, in Alice's _past life_. And Hamish? Hamish has been her best friend since they were children; no, since they were infants, really, and their mother's have all the embarrassing snaps to prove it.

"Alice Kingsleigh," Chessur's sly voice purrs through the morning air like the rough side of velvet, mist swirling lazily before he forms in the seat opposite Alice. She jumps, sitting upright and giving that blasted Cat a look torn between surprise, nervousness, and the joy of greeting a lost friend. Hamish – who has never really had to share Alice with anyone else, because no one has ever been as _close_ to her as he has been – isn't sure he likes it. These…people…have a history with Alice that Hamish is not a part of, cannot touch or slide into. He knows the stories and knows them well, but Hamish Ascot had not even a minor role in the glorious tale of Alice of Aboveland, Champion of the White Queen.

Hamish resists the urge – but only just – to throw a teacup at the cat.

"Welcome back to Underland, Alice."

"Thank you, Chessur," Alice smiles widely at him, eyes sparkling as she leans forward a bit. "It's nice to be here."

"You took your time, of course," Chessur stretches out his front legs, claws kneading the tablecloth as he grins at her. "Was it necessary to go and die before your return, Alice?"

The sound of china shattering pulls all eyes towards the Hatter. His face is pale – even paler then usual, which Hamish hadn't thought was possible. His eyes swirl frantically, unable to choose a color, until they settle on a sickly yellow rimmed with red. His lips, so dark they appear to be nothing more then bruises, curl off his teeth and he narrows his eyes on Chessur. Hamish realizes, with a dull sort of horror, that the teacup the milliner had been holding is shattered in his grasp. Shards of china of lodged themselves in his fingers, his palm, and blood drips, mingling with the tea as it falls.

"Dinna talk 'bout Alice," Thackery whispers worriedly, eyes swirling from the Hatter to the Cat to Alice, before her nervously begins to chew on a butter knife. "We dinna talk 'bout Alice, Chess, we cannae talk 'bout _Alice, Chessur, we cannae talk 'bout –_" Thackery clamps his teeth on the knife before grabbing his ears, pulling them over his eyes, and diving under the table, shaking violently.

Hamish stares at his empty seat for a moment, before slowly turning his head back to the Mad Hatter, who makes fear trickle up and down his spine with the bleak agony reflected in his sickly yellow gaze. Hamish can't stop himself from gulping hard, as though it would remove the near physical lump of worry clogging his throat, tightening his arm around Alice, dragging her closer against his side, dropping his chin as though he could hide her face in his neck and their proximity to each other would keep her safe.

The Hatter's mouth opens and closes several times, growls and grunts and whines of half formed words escaping his throat, dribbling from his lips ("_Why – Alice – die – why – my Alice – my Alice…_"), and Hamish realizes that he would willingly die for Alice. Because with the Hatter watching Alice with those mad, sickly eyes, Hamish is positive that the man from their stories is gone. Alice died once, long ago, and though she is returned, the Hatter was taken over the edge by the loss of the woman he cared for. And Hamish will do everything his power to keep _that_ madness away from Alice. She is too sweet and good and kind, too clever and charming and, at soul, naïve, to handle such…_ferocity_ of emotion and shattered mentality.

He stands quickly, his movements quick, fast and jerking. He drags Alice's chair to the side, knocks his own over, and places himself between the Mad Hatter and Alice. He has never headed a rebellion, never fought in a war, and never used a lethal weapon. The Hatter has. The Hatter can kill him, easily, with his bare hands, and Hamish knows that because the knowledge is reflected, no _need_ to be spoken, in the burning eyes that are locked on him.

Hamish resists the urge to the throw a teacup at him – only just – and stills his trembling knees.

"_My_ Alice," the Hatter rasps, standing from his wingback, knuckles glowing white in the as he leans forward.

"Wrong," Hamish says firmly, clearly, "She's _my_ Alice, now. And I don't plan on giving her up to a lunatic with yak hair."

The tea table is silent. At least until Alice squawks, and punches Hamish in the side hard enough that he is sure his burnt skin has cracked, and his ribs have shattered, and he is _dying_.

"_Excuse me_," she says loudly, hotly, wrath glimmering the depths of her bright eyes as she stands, as well. Her hands rest on the slim swell of her hips, index fingers hooking through the belt loops of her jeans as she leans forward, darting her eyes between Hatter and Hamish and back again. "I'll have you both know, I don't belong to anyone!"

Two mouths drop, as two minds attempt to process what they have just been told. There is a strange moment of awkward solidarity as their eyes meet; the Hatter had claimed Alice so many years before, when she was another Alice Kingsleigh, when she went on a quest to slay the Jabberwocky and free Underland from the Red Queen. Hamish has kept Alice since they infants, learning how to walk; he held her hand as they ran through mud puddles, curled around her for naptimes and bedtimes, and been drawn into her very soul, as surely her stories were a part of her essence.

They have each, _firmly_, believed and clung to their ownership of Alice Kingsleigh. And she has just verbally kicked them in the teeth.

Hamish, being the saner of the two men in question, begins to hastily backtrack and explain.

"I don't mean _belong_, belong," he smiles as winningly as he can when his ribs are creaking and his breath is gasping, "I mean, you're…like my sister, yeah? I can't let any bloke go around laying claim on you, now can I? Got to keep you safe, Alice-bear."

"Don't you _Alice-bear_ me," Alice hisses, eyes narrowing. Hamish gulps, and debates the merits of hiding behind the Hatter. "I can take care of myself, Hamish Charles, and you know it!"

"He's mad!" Hamish insists, pointing frantically at the Hatter, who is glaring him down. "He's entirely 'round the bend. '_My Alice_,' he says, like you're a dog, or something. I was just protecting your virtue!"

"I lost my _virtue_ to Spencer Brown when I was seventeen," Alice snarls scathingly, "So shut it."

Hamish squawks, much like a chicken with abruptly plucked tail feathers. Chessur chuckles, looking even more sly and pleased then is his usual want, a gesture of one expressive paw keeping Mallymkun quiet and from jumping to Tarrant's defense with her hatpin.

"Women's virtue," Thackery chirps from under the table, peeping out almost pleadingly at Tarrant, "Keepin' lassies safe, he is, Hatta!"

"_Safe_!" The Hatter bellows, and Hamish darts firmly in front of Alice as hands began to wave. "_She died, ye slurking urpal slackush scum_!"

"_I came back_!" Alice howls, kicking a chair over. Everyone – even the Hatter – stops and stares at her. Hamish, knowing the signs of a Right Proper Alice Rage when he sees one coming, scuttles to the side, and then backwards, and keeps himself out of arms reach of both Alice and the Hatter. "I am here _now_, and unless I choose so, I belong to no one but _myself_! And if anyone has a problem with that, I suggest they take their testosterone driven, chauvinistic, male posturing _elsewhere_, before I choke them to death on a _crumpet_!"

"_Crumpet_!" Thackery darts out from under the table, snags two, and lobs them. One bounces off the Hatter's chest, and the other crumbles rather tackily against Hamish's cheek. The Hatter takes a step forward, trembling, thimbled hand reaching out, hovering in the air beside Alice's cheek.

"Yer my Alice," he says firmly, desperately, swallowing hard. "Ye always been _my Alice_."

"Didn't ya hear 'er?" Mallymkun can keep herself quiet no longer, it seems, and she's hurtling across the tea table, pointing her hatpin threateningly at Hatter. Mallymkun, Hamish knows, is naturally aggressive – but her little heart has always been warm and soft and half in love with Tarrant Hightopp, and she has only ever confronted him to draw him out of his madness. Even the Hatter stares at her, blinking rapidly, hand dropping from the air. Mallymkun's tiny chest is heaving, round ears and whiskers twitching as her dark eyes glare. "Listen to yerselves! She's a person, ya know, _an'_ the Champion of the White Queen! If Alice says she don't belong to no ones, she don't!"

"Mally," Alice says with a blinding smile, "Thank you."

"Nerve of these men," Mallymkun sniffs, sheathing her hatpin, "Actin' like they can jus' lay claim to whatever comes 'round. I ain't sayin' ya ought to have left like ya did," she pauses, a glowers a bit more, before visibly softening, "But ya had thin's to take care of, righ'? Thin's to do? Yer back, now, all that matters, innit? That ya came home."

"Yes," Alice's eyes are bright, and Hamish realizes she is moments away from tears. "I am home, Mally."

"Must be knackered," Mallymkun, Hamish sees for the first time, has not only the soul of a warrior, but also the heart of a mother hen. She hops and scurries forward, crawling onto Alice's palm when it's proffered. Once she's settled on Alice's shoulder, she pats and smoothes a bit of hair near Alice's ear, tutting under her breath. "Imagine that, comin' all the way to Underland, and bein' tugged around like ya are. I think ya need a bit of a lay down, Alice."

"I am rather tired," Alice admits, smiling a bit sheepishly, "Traveling through the Looking Glass does take a bit out of a person. Even the Champion."

"'Course it does," Mally says firmly, still patting a stray curl down, "Come on, now. Let's go inside and find ya a soft bed, how is that?"

"Sounds wonderful," Hamish and the Hatter stared, befuddled and rather worried at the sight of the two fiercest women they have ever known bonding so fiercely and suddenly. Alice tries to glare at him, but gives up, and settles on looking only a bit put-off with him. "Hamish needs to rest, as well. He's about to fall asleep on his feet, I can tell."

"Thackery has several beds available," Chessur announces, taking a long drink of tea, "Unused for some time, but serviceable."

"Unused?" Alice asks, darting a glance towards Mallymkun.

"This lot wouldn't leave," Mally answers, looking rather grim, "Hatta wouldn't stop waitin', and Thackery wouldn't go without him. Slept at this table quite a while, we have. Mind, I can cozy up in a tea pot, but them being as big as they are…well…"

"Thackery," Alice turns, reaching out and running a hand over one of the Hare's soft ears. He shudders, eyes drooping, giving her a look of such adoration that he closely resembles a hound. "Go inside and rest."

"Hatta," he slurs, gesturing towards the stiff figure behind Alice, "He won't – _spoons_ -"

"He is," she says firmly, "You go on, as well." Wordless he turns and scrambles to the house, shouting about pillows and butter. Alice turns around again, picking up Mallymkun and settling him on Hamish's shoulder. Hamish, who has watched everything with a wary sort of trepidation, wonders if he is moments away from being stabbed in the jugular. Death by hatpin. What a sad, terrible way for it all to end.

"Mally, would you take Hamish to a room?"

"I thought I'd go with ya," Mally droops a bit, though she juts her chin out and puts her hands on her hips, "We need a plan to keep this lot in line!"

"We do," Alice grins, "But I need someone to keep an eye on Hamish. Otherwise he'll end up sleeping outside the door to whatever room I'm in. He's a bit irritating, this one." Mally snorts, rolling her large eyes, before she grabs Hamish's ear lobe and yanks hard.

"Right then," she says firmly, "You an' me are goin' to have a lie in, Freckles, an' ya ain't gonna bother Alice or Hatta!"

"But – but –" Hamish stutters, blinking frantically. "We can share a room, can't we, Alice? We always do. Have before, I mean. I don't think there's enough room for us all to have a bed to ourselves."

"I…" Alice swallows hard and blushes, before darting a glance at the Hatter, "I'm not all that tired, really. I could kip on the sofa, or a chair. I thought I'd see this one to bed."

_This one_, Hamish realizes, _means_ _Tarrant Hightopp_. He is violently displeased.

"No," he says firmly, "Oh, _no_. If you go into a bedroom with him, I know what'll happen! 'My Alice' this, and 'My Hatter' that, and next thing you know I'll be Uncle Hamish! I won't have it! Your father'd kill me if I let you -"

"Hamish," Alice says so quietly that the violent hidden in her tone is _almost_ hidden, "I am an adult. I do not need your permission to do anything. You need to realize that."

"I just want you safe," Hamish says desperately, stepping forward. He grabs her hands, bends low – leaving Mallymkun to grab his hair and hang on tight to keep from sliding off his shoulder, "Alice-bear, I know that…you've always been connected to this place. And I know you've always had _feelings_ for…_that_ man. But we aren't children, these aren't stories, and he…he could hurt you."

"He won't hurt me," Alice says in such a way that Hamish can almost taste her conviction. "He wouldn't ever hurt me."

"You don't know that."

"I _do_," she pats his cheek before sliding to the side, moving until she can take the Hatter's hand. He look he gives her is rapturous, and Hamish scowls. "You silly man, you ought to have slept."

"I was waiting," he lisped, giving her a shy, wondering sort of smile. "I knew you would come back, Alice."

"And I have," she smiles in return, and Hamish feels his stomach roll. "Let's get you settled down."

"No! No – I mean –" the Hatter flounders a moment, before swallowing hard, shaking his head. "Please, Alice, don't make me stay without you again. I…won't sleep if you…if I don't know that you…"

Hamish growls under his breath. Mallymkun tugs violently at his hair.

"I suppose it won't hurt," Alice smiles at the Hatter, all cheeks rosy and eyes bright; a bit timid, a bit heated, and full of muchness. Hamish resists the urge to vomit. "Like a sleep over, yeah?"

"You – you can't take him to bed with you!" Hamish nearly shouts his words, tossing his hands into the air and gesturing wildly. Alice turns on her heal, giving him an accusing sort of look.

* * *

"At twenty-three, if I want to shag him blind for the next two weeks straight, I don't need your permission for it. Besides, Hamish, all we're going to do is _sleep_. He hasn't had a proper rest in ages, and as I told Mally, I am rather tired."

"_I know you_," Hamish nearly howls, "I _know_ what you'll do!"

"It's none of your business!"

"You _can't_ take him to bed!"

"And just _why not_? Give me one_ solid _reason why I can't share a bed with him?"

"Because!" Hamish realizes that isn't going to work, and begins to grasp at threads. Finally he puffs his chest out, looking rather smug. "Because you don't even know his favorite color!"

"Yes, I do," Alice answers firmly, "Me."

"_What_?"

"Me. I'm his favorite color." The Hatter is giving her a wondering, delighted look – his cravat has flared wide (if that wasn't a phallic symbol Hamish would eat his pants), the colors on his face and suit brightened dramatically.

"You aren't a color," Hamish mutters sullenly, "Doesn't count."

"She is," the Hatter says with obvious devotion in his gaze and voice, his fingertips brushing lightly against her cheek, "She's the most beautiful color in the world."

"I'm going to be ill," Hamish grumbles under his breath, but gives up and turns, stomping towards the windmill.

"Do ya love 'er?" Mallymkun asks from his shoulder, once she has directed him to a little bedroom under the stairs. The bed is barely large enough for Hamish, but he curls up on his side, head on the thick pillow, huddling under the musty blanket. Mallymkun lays on the pillow in front of his face, her gaze on the ceiling.

"Alice?" He asks a bit dumbly, "'Course I do."

"Idiot," Mallymkun sighs, "I mean, do ya _love_ 'er?"

"What – like – _no_! Alice and me, we're just friends. We tried dating once, you know," Hamish admits, nose curling, "We tried to kiss – we couldn't do it. It was revolting. Like trying to kiss a sibling."

"He does," Mallymkun's voice is soft and sad and resigned, "He's always loved her."

"The Hatter?"

"Hatta," Mallymkun agrees quietly, "He's gotten worse since she's been gone. Alice came back, though, an' I suspect he'll be much better. He really…_really_ loves 'er, Freckles."

"I know," Hamish agrees quietly, "I've always known that. But what kind of friend would I be if I didn't try and protect her? What if he lost his mind, had a – a fit, you know, and hurt her?"

"He wouldn't," Mallymkun turns on her side, voice muffled and rather thick, as though she is close to tears. "She's the one person he could never hurt."

Alice is laying in a strange bed with soft sheets and an old smelling quilt, cursing herself for not having thought to brought a pair of jim-jams to Underland that are less lounging about the flat watching telly with Hamish and more suited to crawling into bed with the man she'd been fantasizing about for…well, _forever_. She's wearing one of Hamish's old shirts that has Manchester United across the front, faded and soft from hundreds of washing, and a pair of shorts that have Manchester written across the bum. She feels like a teenager, or a virgin, or even both. She's neither, and it annoys her that the strange bed and dusty room and Tarrant Hightopp can make her feel as such.

His hat is on the dresser across from the bed, sash pooling on the beaten wood like a ripple of pink cream water. Alice rather feels that it is looking at her as though it is torn between amusement and scandal. Amused because she is mourning her sleepwear, scandalized because she is vividly recalling all the good bits she's ever read in the trashy romance novels she and Margaret swap. She has visions of being ravished running through her mind, ravished by the Hatter, with lots of purple prose that involve throbbing members and love canals and joining in not only flesh, but soul. She shouldn't be thinking those sorts of things, because she _isn't_ a shy virgin, damn the world. She certainly isn't on par with the Chattaway sisters who have had more sexual encounters and partners then most Taiwanese hookers, but she isn't a blushing maid awaiting her soon-to-be-lover.

Tarrant Hightopp is _not_ her soon-to-be-lover. True, she has been fixated on him for several years. And _yes_, he obviously cares deeply for her. But that doesn't mean he loves her, or even desires her. Perhaps he feels for her in the same way Hamish does, like a brother, like siblings – Alice has to bite her lip at the thought, and hates the fact that a knot of pain forms in her stomach.

She nearly jumps from the bed when the door creaks open. Tarrant had insisted on leaving when she changed into her jim-jams. Alice finds it adorable and sweet and she very much wants to snog him for it. But she won't, because they aren't like that, and she is stronger then her hormones. _Really_.

He'd changed as well, while he was gone. She eyes him a moment as he slips inside and shuts the door, looking anywhere but at Alice and the bed; he hasn't changed, not really, but he had shed his cravat and jacket and waistcoat. He is in shirtsleeves, trousers, and even his feet are bare of stockings. The light streaming through the window glints off the red curls on his toes and lower legs, and Alice feels a completely irrational surge of lust.

She debates the merits of pressing a pillow over her face until she passes out. While it would save her the horror of doing something idiotic - like throwing herself at him and begging him to do unspeakable, filthy things to her body - it would probably trouble him greatly. And so she only sits up in bed, curling her legs to her chest and giving him a smile. Which is rather useless, really, given that he is scuffing his toes against the floor and staring, firmly, at the ceiling.

"You do look knackered," Alice says; smile widening as his eyes dart to her. Tarrant gives Alice a look that is caught somewhere between frightened and delighted, scrubbing his bandaged fingers against his fabric covered thighs. The realization that he is without his thimbles makes Alice's breath catch, her heart squeeze, and her thighs tense. "How long has it been since you had a proper rest, Hatter? In a bed, I mean?"

"I don't need a bed," Tarrant gives her a beaming smile, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I can sleep anywhere, me. Really, Alice I – I hardly ever sleep. Chairs are just fine, really. I enjoy sitting, and I can sleep sitting, and it does'na really -"

"Hatter," she cuts him off as he begins to ramble, her smile soft. "You certainly aren't sleeping in the chair. We slayed that Jabberwocky together, you and I. After that, we surely can share a bed."

He _looks_ at her. Directly at her, into her eyes, and he is not a lisping Hatter of silly rhymes and manic giggles. Nor is he a flame-eyed creature of madness and vengeance, bent on destroying his enemies. He is a man, simply a man of flesh, bone, and blood; of desires, wants, and needs. Alice locks her jaw to keep from letting the gasp escape her throat, curls her hands in the quilt over her up drawn legs to keep from lying down and not so subtly offering herself to him.

She feels quite certain there is only one mad person in the room at the moment, and it is her.

"'Course," he breathes in a voice much deeper then his usual want, words thickened by his rough brogue. "'Course we can, Alice."

Alice does her best not gibber at him like a teenager meeting the Jonas Brothers, and is very proud when the only thing that manages to escape her lips is a soft squeak that sounds vaguely like "_Right_," and possibly drips with lust. Possibly. There is no proof, however, and Alice refuses to admit it. Even to herself.

He crosses the room in four strides, and stands beside the bed. Alice tugs her smile back into place, slips down, pulling the quilt back to pat the sheet-covered mattress. "Come on," she offers, toes thankfully hidden, because they are curling. The man has not even touched her, is only looking at her (as though she is a feast and he is starved, as though she is life and he has only just been freed from a death sentence), his eyes vivid, swirling between crimson and orange. They settled on a bright, burnt color Alice can't name, and her heart begins to do double time.

She is ready to start screaming at him to do _something_, just please stop _staring_ like that, when he takes the remaining half step and sits on the edge of the bed. His back is taunt, his shoulders one tense line under the linen of his shirt. Alice wonders what it would be like to smooth her hands over those angles, to feel warm flesh and hard muscle, and bites down hard on her lip.

Twenty-three years she'd been dreaming about this man, entirely under the assumption she'd never come face-to-face with him. Now she is in his bed, and she is torn, so _torn_. She wants to tackle him. She wants to do things to him that she refused to do with Spencer or Franklin or Thomas, she wants to learn his body, trace his scars, kiss her way down his body and lick her way back up. She wants to learn his secrets, his thoughts, his madness and cleverness and kindness. She wants to know him as no other person possibly would or could or can, and it is so strong, this urge, to press against him and drag him to the bed that his an actual, physical ache in her stomach and hands and mouth.

She doesn't want to break this fragility between them. She absolutely fears scaring him away, finding out that while she has _yearned_ for him her entire life, he has not wanted her in the same way. She thinks it would kill her. She _knows_ it would. And so she scoots herself against the wall, tight, tighter still, and lets out a breath that sounds rough even to her own ears.

"You've got to lay down," she only half teases, "You'll get a crick in your back trying to sleep like that."

He says nothing, but swings his legs up, settles on his back. They both shift a bit, doing everything they can not to touch, to avoid it, because Alice has feeling if he touches her it will be like wild fire, and she will burn and break and consume him in her own drowning need. Eventually he is under the quilt, and nearly falling off the bed. She is pressed against the wall, and her neck is at an awkward angle, and they are both clutching the quilt and staring at the ceiling and it is _awful_.

The man hasn't properly slept in too long. And now he is finally in a bed, and uncomfortable; they have already established, previous to him leaving to strip layers and for her to put on sleeping clothes, that any attempt Alice might make to rest in a chair will result in the Hatter becoming rather cross. He wants her there, but they are uncomfortable, and it's _useless_ –

"Bugger this," Alice grumbles, before she twists and turns, leaning over Tarrant and grabbing the wrist of the arm farthest from her. He gives a shocked noise (a needy noise, if only in Alice's mind, and she suspects that one indrawn breath is going to fuel her fantasies for many restless nights to come), pulling at him until she is on her side. She tugs his arm around her stomach, threads their fingers together, and curls her body into his. He is tense against her, breathing shallowly, _trembling_ from the tautness of his muscles.

"Alice?" He asks very softly, as though he is frightened of being too loud.

"Is this bad?" She asks, "Are you uncomfortable?"

"_Nae_!" He nearly shouts, before his face is nuzzling into her hair, and he is going limp. His breath is warm across her cheek and neck, his arm tightens around her body, and he curls his knees so he is surrounding her, holding her captive from behind. "Nae, s'fine, Alice…_my Alice_…"

"Sweet dreams, Hatter," Alice breathes, shifting even closer as his free arm wriggles his way under her head, until he us her pillow and blanket and everything she will ever needed in the entire world.

"Beautiful dreams, Alice…"

* * *

The Land of Nowhere is covered in shadows, with two moons glimmering brightly, heavily pregnant and full as they hang in the sky amid twinkling stars that form extravagant constellations. Their light drips into the large, vaulted sleeping chambers of the royal couple, where the God of Wild Places lays sprawled amid sheets spun of dream silk, his skin glowing against their dark color. The Iron Queen rests on her side, trailing her hand over his back, eyes closed as she listens his breathing, and the Dream Song that sings out from the Earth and Universe, pulsing through her blood, matching the pounding of her heart.

There is a faint ripple in the vibrations of air and Earth and Song, so small and well hidden that few would have noticed the disturbance. The Iron Queen is not one of many, however, and her eyes open, fingertips faltering in their downward path across her husband's side. She leans forward, pressing her lips against his shoulder, leaving a damp imprint of her lips, before she pulls back, sliding across the sheets. Her feet dangle from the edge of the bed, as she stretches her arms, her body bare in the dim lighting as she rolls her neck. The sound of bones snapping is sharp and sudden in the hush, though her husband does little more then snort, and continues with his rest.

"Chessur," Kore smiles into the darkness of her chambers, before she slips from the bed and stands, ambling to the large vanity that takes up position near the doors to their balcony. The air wavers into mist, the mist forms a lithe body, and it quickly turns into the gray-and-blue Cheshire Cat who bestows upon her his trademark grin. "What an odd time for a visit."

"Odd?" He questions, spinning lazily in the air, "In what way?"

"Cern rarely sleeps," she darts him a sly sort of look as she nabs the dressing gown hanging from the back her vanity chair, pulling it on and belting it around her waist. "And night does not always come to Nowhere."

"Night comes everywhere," Chessur corrects, "Even to Nowhere."

The Iron Queen turns and leads the Cat from the room. She doesn't dare open the door for fear of waking the Wild God, and so she simply passes through it, body going to mist before recollecting. A wave of her calloused hand sends the hearth fire burning, candles sputtering to life in the large sitting room. She settles herself on a large chair, curling her legs under her body as a cup appears in her hand.

"Something to drink, Chessur?"

"Tea would be lovely, Majesty."

"Majesty? Odin's beard, Chess, what game are you playing at this evening?"

"That _would_ be telling. Thank you," Chessur curls his agile paws around the thick mug when it appears, inhaling the steam of Innocent Dreams, before he takes a short drink, savoring the sweetness and it bursts to life across his tongue. "Pity we can't have this flavor taken to Underland."

"It would kill most mortals," Kore smiles only a bit smugly, brushing her hand through her hair. Poets have called it the color of a captured sunset, while others compare it to spilled blood; it is the color of passion and lust, battle rage and a failing sun. It is a sign of her bloodline, and she wears her father's colors with pride. She leans back in her seat, green eyes glittering at the Cat – eyes as green and bright as Chessur's, as they are cousins, of sorts – and they share a similar smile. "I would hate to put unready Dead before my good husband's Throne."

"You simply don't want to do the work."

"I do hate Audiences and Judging," Kore admits, shrugging, "Boring, really. Now, what brings you to Nowhere?"

"I have the most interesting news. _If_ Her Majesty permits me to speak."

"Wouldn't matter if I didn't," Kore lifts one bright eyebrow, aiming a rather arch look, "You speak even if I don't want you to."

"Never, Majesty, never..."

"Mmhmm…"

"Alice of Aboveland," Chessur declares with relish, "Has returned to Underland."

"Has she?" The Queen sits upright, attempting to widen her eyes into an expression of shock. Her grin gives it all away, though. Chessur laughs, taking another drink of tea.

"You already knew, then?"

"I may have," Kore admits without a hint of shame, "She is rather important to me, you know."

"One of your blood?"

"No, no – but the Hightopps, ah, they are blood-of-my-blood. What is dear to the last of that Clan is dear to me."

"It has _nothing_ to do with politics, of course."

"Politics," Kore flinches as though it's a dirty word, "I never get involved in that if I can help it."

"Strange words from a Queen."

"It's why I'm good at my job. I haven't been kicked off my throne, have I?"

"Not for lack of trying."

"Well, honestly," Kore attempts to look innocent, and fails miserably. "If you're going to send assassins, at least get the sort that are good at it."

"It would take an army to remove you, Kore."

"They've tried," she beams, "They failed."

"Vicious creature."

"Naturally." They fall into a lull, sipping their tea, staring into the fire.

"Why?" Chessur asks suddenly, and the rapid movements of his tail suggest irritation. "Why did you let the girl die in the first place?"

"Everyone dies," Kore answers softly, "It was her time."

"Life in one hand, death in the other," Chessur says in a vicious sort of tone, "You could have saved her."

"I couldn't save my own children," Kore snaps, "When Death comes, and there is no hiding. Death came. She was called to Nowhere to stand Judgment before Cern and myself, and I could do _nothing _to change this. There is a plan, Chessur, and not even I -"

"You have changed Destiny before!"

"_And what did I loose_?" The Queen finds her feet, hair fluttering around her as her eyes turn gold and her lips pull back off impossibly sharp teeth. She snarls like an animal, chest heaving. Her tea hovers in the air, wavering violently, sloshing over the sides of her mug. "My own children went to the River and drank to forget, Chessur, and there _was nothing I could do_! Had I stepped in, Alice of Aboveland would have died in battle before her time, and the last of the Hightopps would have went with her!"

"Tarrant has suffered more then enough," Chessur says sharply, "He doesn't need to be a pawn in your games. Neither does Underland."

"You hold dominion in Underland because I allow your presence," Kore hisses, and her words drip with violence and thinly veiled power, "I allow your immortal hide to walk among those mortals and help guide them along the Path. Do you recall our bargain? You remain alive to keep watch over Underland. If your cowardly hide turns against our Vow, I'll toss you in the River myself, and you'll never hold a corporeal form _again_."

"They've lost enough."

"They'll loose more," Kore snarls, "If you attempt to change what is going to happen."

"Do you think I don't know?" Chessur swirls upwards, head spinning several times before he disappears, reappearing directly in front of Kore. His eyes are cold and his smile sharp, his breath hot against her face. "I have heard the rumors, Daughter of Teutates. I know the Unnamed Ones are walking in Underland. Do you think I'm stupid enough to believe that you are simply looking after the last Hightopp, or Alice Kingsleigh?"

"I do what I must," Kore breathes threateningly, her face tight, hands balled into white-knuckled fists at her sides.

"You are a war monger, and you send mortal children to fight your battles."

"Do I?" The planes and lines of Kore's face ripple and sharpen, until the bits of her humanity edge away, and she is a creature born of star shine and blood and magic, inhuman and impossible and terrifying. She steps forward, nose-to-nose with the twitching Cat. "Would you rather I unleash _my_ armies upon Underland? Could you imagine, Cat, what would come of it? Underland would fall under my blades, and my husband's, and my living children's. We would destroy an entire world to see vengeance done. The White Queen would be a price for this, you know, I have heard it in the Song. You fought bravely, for the first time, to see her regain her crown. Would you like to see her dead to keep it when the Unnamed Ones take Marmoreal?"

"Sometimes," Chessur says softly, "I simply cannot tell when you are lying or not."

The Hell Queen's mouth opens wide, and beyond her pink tongue and wet teeth shines a world captured in her throat, a universe spinning endlessly. A convergence of immortality and power that burn mortals to dust and ash at a mere glimpse of it. The Cat hisses, scuttling backwards on quick paws.

"Alice of Aboveground will help to secure the line of the White Queen in time," Kore whispers, Prophecy riding her words, "Her womb will give forth royal children of Hightopp blood, blood-of-my-blood. Before she ripens with children, she will see battle. She will help drive the Unnamed Ones from the fertile soil of Underland. If this does not happen, Chessur, it will not only be Underland that falls. First Underland, then Above. The Otherworld, and Nowhere. All Universes will burn, Chessur, and all the godlings and deities will not be able to stop if they gain Underland."

"I won't fight," Chessur purrs, flittering away, "I despise battles."

"I never expected to see you on the battlefield."

"Will you ride with Alice? Or your Hightopp kinsman?"

"It is undecided," Kore hedged, face softening as she turned away. "Cern…worries."

"You have always been obedient to the point of stupidity when it comes to your men, haven't you, Majesty?"

"I will skin you," Kore speaks evenly, though her blade appears without warning, and Chessur finds himself unable to breath or move or disappear. He hovers, lungs screaming, fur bristled as the point of a sharp blade is pressed to his throat, and the Hell Queen Kore smiles prettily at him. "I will make you into a fine wrap, and wear you in winter."

Chessur manages to hiss, eyes wild.

"Cern has lost me too many times," she continues, "To not worry. And I have hurt him too badly to act without weighing my options. I will, of course, ride with the Champion and last Hightopp if there is no other choice. They have been given my support, and I will not turn my back on them. I fear, however, for the rest of the mortals if I appear in battle. I forget myself. Curse of Tanta's blood, see? It obviously skipped you. You've no taste for battle."

"No taste for blood," Chessur spits when the magic loosens its grip and he topples to the floor, gasping and shaking, mind too fogged to evaporate. "Not like _you_."

"Do you recall when you had a man-form?" Kore asks, making Chessur spit and hiss at her. "Do you? We rode together, you and I, and you fought _bravely_. It was the last time you displayed such loyalty to your kin, Ogma!"

"_Do not call me such_!" Chessur hisses violently, lurching to the air, clawing at the air in front of her face.

"Mock past wounds," Kore said quietly, "And I will do the same."

"It was a long time ago," Chessur disappears, though his eyes glimmer meanly from across the room, "It is a legend, now. Mostly forgotten. I have no taste for war."

"War is coming, however," Kore sighs, her blade disappearing. She runs her hands several times through her long hair, before gathering it in one fist and pulling it over her right shoulder, where she begins to braid it. "We can't escape this. It _must_ happen. The Unnamed Ones make shadows, and I will not give them Underland. I will not give them _anything_."

* * *

The White Queen dreams of a grand Audience Chamber of black marble and slick veins of white, where the tumbling ivy and open flowers rain down from the ceiling and crawl along the walls. The dais at the far end is lifted high above the common floor, and it holds two thrones of stone and bark and flowing, twisting branches. Only one seat of power is occupied, and it holds a woman with flowing scarlet hair and pale skin that shines like rainwater and Wild Magic.

"White Queen of Underland," the voice that pulses forward holds such power that Mirana feels faint, her knees weak and eyes wide. Only once before has it whispered to her, when it spoke of a Champion to face the Jabberwocky and a crown restored to its rightful owner. "Do you know who I am?"

"Dream Weaver," Mirana said softly, one hand pressing to her stomach as the other flutters weakly beside her head. She steps forward on trembling legs, lifting her chin, "Iron Queen, Hell Queen. Beater of the War Drums, Speaker of the Prophecies."

"Call me Kore," the Goddess before her smiles, and gestures Mirana forward. Mirana follows the invitation rather weakly, her head pounding harshly. "One queen to another, yes?"

"Majesty," Mirana dips into a small curtsy, head bowing.

"Do you know that Alice of Aboveland has returned to Underland?"

"No," Mirana's dark eyes go wide, her lips pulling into a pleased smile, "Has she truly?"

"Underland once more has a Champion. At this moment she rests with the last of the Hightopp Clan."

Mirana and the Hell Queen stare at each for a long moment. Mirana does her best to stifle her laughter and a sly wink, and settles on beaming pleasantly, despite her throbbing headache and trembling stomach.

"I thought you should be made aware."

"Is there a reason I should have a Champion again, Dream Weaver?"

"Since you have taken vows," Kore says dryly, "Of course. You know, Mirana, I simply don't understand a Queen refusing to battle for her kingdom. I could teach you. I'd be _happy_ to teach you."

"I've no desire to take the life of another."

"My father is the King of Battle," Kore says loftily, before she gives a smile that is a bit sheepish and rather girlish. "Suppose that's why the thought of never going to war unsettles me. Are you quite sure I can't teach you? Just a bit? How to throw a punch? I have a monster right hook. Really, in my family you have to learn how to punch – I've got twenty-nine brothers, me, and two sisters. I take very much after my Tanta, of course. I'm quite gifted."

"Thank you," Mirana swallows, shaking her head, "But I must decline."

"Pity," Kore sighs, before leaning back in her Throne. "Well then, that's all." And then she stares.

Mirana does her best not to fidget.

"Well? Was there something else, White Queen Mirana?"

"I – well, Dream Weaver, I'm not entirely – you see, I don't quite know how to leave."

"Oh – _oh_! Yes, yes, I always forget this part. Sorry to interrupt your dreams, Majesty. You know, politics never wait…ah, well. Sweet dreams, White Queen."

"Majesty," Mirana curtsies once more, before jerking upright in her bed, heart pounding violently. She sits, shaking, as the magic of the Dream Weaver lingers in her mind and chest. She stumbles to her feet, nearly tripping in her clinging bedding, before she runs – forgetting to be graceful in her rush – to her bathing chambers. Her knees slam hard onto white stone floor, and she is violently sick for a long time.

She should have known, she muses, when she decided to a nap. She never takes midday naps – she _should_ have _known_…. Eventually she gives up on dignity all together, as even the White Queen is not meant to travel to Nowhere, to be faced with such immortal powers. She sprawls on the cold tiles, one hand shielding her eyes from the brightness of her white and gold bathing chamber and the sunlight from the windows.

"Must send guards," she whispers to herself, "To fetch Hatta and Alice. I should do that now."

She doesn't move.

"I really should."

She moves her hand, cracks her eyes open, and is nearly sick on herself.

"In a moment," she promises the large chamber, "Yes, in a moment."

In a moment turns out to be several hours, and she is very glad that the entire Court and Council are banned from entering her private chambers unless it is a matter of life-and-death, as she would have been forced to do something drastic if they had caught her sleeping on the floor of her bathing chamber.


	6. Chapter Six

**Story: Yesterday I Was A Different Person**

**Rating: T (for the moment)**

**Genre(s): Humor, Romance**

**Summary: ****Alice Kingsleigh lived in a fantasyland of pocket-watch carrying rabbits, teatime with a Mad Hatter, and a smiling cat that is forever on the prowl for a finely crafted top hat. Then she steps through a Looking Glass into the vast world of Underland, where her childhood stories and constant dreamtime companions are flesh-and-fur real.**

**A/N: Uh, yeah. So, I had thought for sure this chapter was going to force me to up the rating. Hamish had other ideas. Surprise, surprise. I rather like this chapter – I don't know how anyone else will feel about it, but I'm rather proud of myself for managing to balance plot and the Alice/Tarrant-glee fest that is happening in my head. So. Good for me! Uh, forewarning that my lovely beta is off camping, and I've a had terrible two days, so I'm posting this after only **_**my**_** eyes looked over it. Whatever mistakes you find are my own, and I'm **_**so so sorry**_**. But. There ya go. The usual thanks and love and GLEE goes to all my reviewers, who are kind to this piece of insanity and overwhelm me with the enjoyment they take from it. As usual, constructive criticism is always welcome, as any way I can improve as a writer is a Good Thing.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Alice in Wonderland in any form. I do own all original characters, and I doubt anyone else is brave enough to try and take them on. Can I claim the Mighty Hightopp Penis? Or does that fall into the public domain…hmmm…**

Alice dreams of a wind tousled field that is covered in wild flowers, where the sunshine is so thick it is nearly tangible enough to touch. The leaves of the trees are so green and vivid it is almost painful, and the sky is bluer then Alice has ever thought possible. She twirls slow circles, taking in the landscape, amazed and in awe, her heart pounding painfully in her chest as the ethereal, unearthly beauty soaks into her skin and awakens her creative spirit. In the distance is the thatched roof of a cottage, and smoke drifts in lazy curls from the chimney. There is the sound of running water, a creek bubbling over rocks, and it is singing soothingly into the air.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Alice spins quickly, looking towards the cottage. A woman is standing in the field with her, amid the high grass and flowers, with no tracks to show her progress. Alice imagines, a bit hazily, that they make quite the striking picture amid the tall purple flowers and the white bursts of the daisies. The woman smiles, but it is sickly, as though she is fighting bile or tears. She spreads her hands, gesturing towards the sky and field, the cottage and the brown, picturesque view of a lane peaking through the trees. "Perfect. Everyone thinks it's perfect."

"Perfect?" Alice repeats questioningly, and something about that word – that _suggestion_ – makes her look harder. Nothing changes. Not the sounds or colors, the sky or the cottage. But nothing, she knows, nothing in the entire universe is completely, utterly perfect. "That's…wrong. Isn't it?"

"No," the woman swallows, throat working hard, before she begins to walk forward. The grass and flowers seem to grow taller, stretch farther into the sunlight as though she is water and they are given life from her presence. "This place is visually perfect. You're an artist, Alice. You can see that."

"It shouldn't be, though. Nothing is ever this…bright." Alice pauses, head swimming violently. She brings her hands up; pressing her palms to her temples before her vision suddenly rights it's self. She looks sharply at the woman, who is standing within touching distant, now, directly in front of her. "Where am I? Who are you?"

"Nowhere," the woman pauses, her smile softening, eyes crinkling in a way that suggests to Alice she enjoys laughing. "Well, a bit outside of Nowhere, actually. Little pocket universe known as Sideways."

"We're…Sideways?"

"Yes," the woman agrees, head tipping as she reaches out, brushing her fingertips over Alice's cheek. Golden sparks between their skin, and Alice gasps, taking a quick step backwards, her eyes wide. "We're Sideways. Rather appropriate, really."

"Who are you?" Alice repeats, and then, "What are you?" Because there are clouds in the golden eyes before her, clouds that swirl into stars, stars that converge into plants, and there is life and death and rebirth, all there in her eyes and voice and hands. Alice drags in a deep breath, but it doesn't help as she is being sucked into the Universe, several Universes; she can hear the cries of newborn children, feel the death of masses, of planets, or every bit of life ever. She sees herself, ageless and vast and outreaching, swollen with child. _Life Giver_, a voice whispers, _carry blood-of-my-blood, bring strength to the Crown –_

"I have many names," Alice blinks and is drawn back to herself, and while there are secrets in those yellow eyes (eyes that so resemble a certain milliner's when the Badness comes upon him), there are no longer supernovas or a pulsing, beating Song that shook Alice from her bones outwards. "I'm many things, actually. My name, however, is Kore.

"Names have power," she continues with a gentle look, "So use it wisely and do try and remember that bit of advice, dear."

Alice stares, her mind caught up in a whirl of thoughts and half-formed images she can barely grasp.

"I am a mother," Kore says, "Yes, that one is important. Always a mother, first and foremost. A wife. A sister, a daughter. A woman. I am a Queen and a Goddess – but, dear Alice, once upon a time I was as fragile and mortal as you are now."

"Goddess?" Alice repeats, and her heart jumps somewhere into her throat.

"Goddess," Kore assures her with a laugh, cupping her cheek. "Sweet girl, do you have any idea how dear you are to me? You remind me of myself, when I was young. I remember what it was like for me…of course; we didn't have anyone to guide us. Bast and myself. I am less known by my given name, but Bast – Bast you might know."

"Cats," Alice holds in her urge to ramble, curling her fingers into her palms, "Egyptian, right?"

"One form," Kore laughs again, "But yes, she's always had a fondness for cats. Walk with me? I have a bit of a story to tell you. You do like stories, don't you, Alice?"

"Yes," Alice answers automatically, turning and falling into step at Kore's side. They meander through the field, and Alice smiles as Kore gestures towards a rabbit darting between the high grasses. "I do like stories."

"This is an interesting story, I think," Kore bumps their elbows together, "Though perhaps that is only because it's mine. As I said, you do remind me of myself. I will do everything I can to help you, dear girl, but there are Rules even I must obey. Idiotic rules, sometimes, but the Council insists on them."

Alice isn't sure what to say, and so she is silent, slipping her hands into the pockets of her blue jeans.

"Once upon a time," Kore pauses, laughing, "I do love that phrase. All right, once upon a time, a little girl was born in Arkansas. You've heard of it, I'm sure. A state in America?"

"Yes," Alice agrees at Kore's sideways glance, her eyebrow arching high. "I know it."

"No one thinks there is anything overtly special about this girl. Her mother was young, perhaps too young for children, but life is strange like that, isn't it? There is no father in the picture. Just this woman and her child and her mother's family. The year is 1971 at her birth. This girl is named is Kore Leigh, and she has the usual sort of childhood. Games and books and toys, cousins and friends and school work, later on. But there is always a tickle in the back of her mind, this half-formed notion that there is Something Else in the world."

Alice understands, at once, what Kore means. She remembers being young, loosing herself in the thoughts – memories – of her Wonderland. Of knowing, just _knowing_, there is so much _more_ in the world…

"But that's a silly thought, isn't it? The world is as it is, and nothing more. Magic isn't real, no matter how badly she wants it to be. There are no dragons to be fought, or wars to wage by sword and will alone. So she begins to grow up, and tries to put those thoughts behind her. When she is fourteen, however, she's riding her bike home from school, and it's raining. A truck looses control, and careen towards her – and this is it, isn't it? Head on collision with a Chevy, I mean, honestly; we didn't have to wear helmets or things like that in those days. Smoosh, dead, gone. But," Kore gestures expansively, looking a bit proud as she guides Alice out of the field and into the trees. They find themselves, fairly quickly, at the edge of the swiftly moving creek, and Kore settles herself on a fallen tree. Alice takes a seat beside, and Kore continues speaking as they strip their shoes and socks from their feet in preparation for dipping their toes in the water.

"But there's that tickle, isn't there? That belief? And her hand flies out, and she just somehow _knows_ that if she presses hard enough, looks far enough, she can see Life and Death and everything in between. And she doesn't want to die, refuses to die on Maple Drive, in the rain, with tread marks from a truck on her stomach. And she _pushes_ – and Time stops. The birds in the sky, the wind, the truck, the rain. And the girl is sitting there, hand outstretched, sobbing hysterically, because she nearly died, and the world has paused, and she has no idea how to undo what she's done.

"Within moments people arrive. Gods and Goddesses, all members of the Council. Her father is there, Teutates. He has her red hair, and her eyes, and she just _knows_ it's him at first sight. So there's one question answered, why she always thought of that Something Else, how she stopped Time in its tracks. But there's a thousand more questions, now, because it's come to light she's a godling, and everyone is whispering about Destiny and Fate and Prophecy. A few want her killed, simply to preserve the Universes and Life. Teutates won't hear a word of it, and she's whisked away from the mortal world, and taken to Nowhere.

"There's much more to the story," Kore admits after a moment of silence, glancing at Alice, "But there are things you need to know before you can hear the rest of it. You see why I say you remind me of myself, don't you?"

"So, what," Alice tugs at the legs of her jeans, making sure they don't fall from where she has rolled them to her knees, swishing her feet in the creek and staring into the water. "Are you suggesting I'm a deity of some sort?"

"Do you think you're of godling blood?" Kore meets Alice's eyes, and they stare at each other for a long, long time. Alice sees stares in Kore's eyes, again; their light is glittering silver in her hair, and there is something cloy and intoxicating on her breathe when Kore's pink dart darts out to swipe at her lips. It makes Alice shake her head, turning her gaze to her knees.

"No," she says firmly, "I'm no godling."

"Not a hint of it," Kore says with something that sounds like pride, and bounces her shoulder off Alice's. "Not like me. That's a question for you to think on until we talk again – _what are you_. Have any idea's, yet?"

"I'm Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh," Alice shrugs, pushing her fingers through her hair. It's easier to not look at Kore directly; the cloaking of power and light flickers, and several images fall rapidly in and out of place. An older Kore with crows feet and laugh lines and a thicker waist; an old woman, fingers gnarled, staring into the creek with dark eyes; a young woman, hands pressed her stomach, tears trickling down her face. "I've never wanted to anything else."

"Slayer of the Jabberwocky," Kore says before she laughs, and leans back, palms on the ground behind the log they sit on. She stares upwards to the sky that hangs between the branches of the trees, peaks between the jealous, hiding leaves. "You are so young, Alice Kingsleigh. I don't know if I should envy you for your youth, though."

Alice turns her head to look directly at her; but as catching glimpses of Kore out of the side of her eyes had shown her different images, looking at the flowing water and opposite bank did the same. Alice jerked, nearly falling from the log, while Kore continued to stare upwards, looking pained.

"Visually perfect," Alice says, because she remembers Kore telling her that. She pauses, blinks, licks her lips and turns to face the opposite bank full on. Unlike with Kore, it takes only a matter of will to see beyond whatever covers the true image. She is quiet a moment, before she looks to Kore again. She takes in what she had seen, the towering stones and the drooped tree branches and flows what her instincts tell her. "Who died here?"

"How many," Kore corrects, before swallowing, "Five. My children. I have always had beautiful children. Beautiful children…" She trails off, closing her eyes, and when she speaks again it is though her words come without thought, as though she doesn't mean to speak them. They resonate inside Alice, and she wonders how the world doesn't crack and crumble and fall apart from the sorrow in that powerful voice.

"I was born with the Circle inside me – Life, Death, Rebirth. I help oversee it. I am the Iron Queen, but when they…there was no stopping, not then…sacrifices had to made, one child for another, one child for many, and they…oh, my beautiful children…"

_Iron Queen_, Alice hears, pressing a hand to heart in her attempts to still its frantic motions. She remembers old books, musty books, full of heroes and tragedy and a stolen bride.

"Persephone?" She whispers, and looks to Kore again. The pain is wiped from Kore's face, and she turns head, still leaning back, eyes crinkling as she smiles. "Like…with the pomegranate?"

"Morals," Kore sighs fondly, "What silly stories. But yes, there was a pomegranate. One of the few things you lot got right."

"Why are you…why am I…?"

"Because there is a War, dear girl, and despite my best efforts, it is coming to you. Or you have come to it. I would take it away if I could, but blood-of-my-blood cannot escape the Fate our line. We are born into War. And you have tied yourself to my blood, and so it is now your Fate, as well."

Alice wants to ask more questions, but her gaze is drawn back to the creek bed. The land is not sick, no; but it seems distorted, as though too many tears have fallen on it. Stone monuments rise up into the sunshine, taller then Alice but not nearly as tall the trees, and hiding in their shadows is a figure. A man, impossibly slender, long limbed, graceful. His hair is as dark as night, sweeping past his shoulders, and two carefully twined braids fall from his temples, bumping his sharp cheeks and jaw. He looks at Alice with eyes as pale and blue as the hottest part of flame, even the coldest ice, and Alice shivers.

"Who is that?" She asks, leaving Kore to stare at her, brow crinkled. Alice points to the man, who – even across the divide of the flowing water and banks and monument stones – appears startled that she has seen him, is pointing him out. "In the trees, do you see him?"

Kore curses, and the words are foreign; they are captured lightning and rolling thunder, the force of an earthquake and fierceness of a tornado. Alice trembles, her skin too small, heart too large, mind buzzing. She wonders if she will die in a Dream that is Not, die at the side of the Iron Queen Kore, so close to where her fallen children are laid.

"Sister," the man calls, and steps forward. Past the trees and stones, until his boots are at the edge of the water, and Alice can see how Other he is. Is not in his form, no, he looks like a man, as Kore looks like a woman. But there is magic twirling around his limbs, brightening his eyes, and power stirs like air currents when he moves. At Alice's side Kore bares her teeth, opens her mouth, and Alice is burning alive when she looks to her, as she stars and worlds, glimmering in her throat, captured and stolen and held safe – "I've come to pay my respects."

"_Get away from my children_!" Kore does not raise her voice. She doesn't need to. There is enough sheer hatred and barely leashed power that Alice fears the sky will fall down on their heads. She takes to her feet, whirling reaching out and pressing Alice's cheeks between her palms. "I will see you again, sweetling. Think on the questions I have asked and that I haven't. Names have power. Remember that."

"Who is that?" Alice demands, pushing up to stand, glaring over Kore's shoulder. He looks nothing like a Jabberwocky, but there is evil in his eyes, his soul, and Alice longs for the Vorpal blade. "What is he?"

"Wake," Kore whispers, pressing her lips to Alice's, a chaste kiss that is rather like a mother-to-child. "Wake, Champion, and be kind to the blood-of-my-blood."

The Dream begins to waver violently. Alice watches as light blooms from the Iron Queen, swirls up and around her, and swords appear in her hands. She digs her bare feet into the dirt before she takes off, running across the water, a scream escaping her throat as the man laughs, lifts his hands which suddenly hold a blade surrounded by towering flames.

Alice wakes on a choked gasp, heart pounding like a drum in her chest. She chokes on whimpers and cries of fear, nearly shoots out of her bed like a rocket when she becomes aware of the grasp on her body when the limbs holding her tighten. But her frantic gasps have brought to her the scent of tea and linen, sandalwood and man, and she remembers where she is. She is in her Wonderland, in the Hatter's bed; Tarrant is curled behind her, around her. She is _safe_.

She curls tightly into him, closing her eyes against the afternoon light, pressing her nose into the crook of his elbow. He mutters in his sleep, something thick with brogue and possibly in Outlandish, and Alice has no idea what the words mean. But the sound is soothing, and she clings to him. She is troubled by her Dream-Not-Dream, of course, but surely there is nothing truly wrong when she is being held so safely, and Tarrant is so warm around her. She closes her eyes and sighs, promising to think more of the flame haired Iron Queen and the flaming sword wielding man who called her sister, there at the banks that held the remains of Kore's dead children, but only when she was ready. She had for more important things to do; things like returning to sleep, waking up again quiet and relaxed in Tarrant's arms.

It doesn't matter how he feels when they are sleeping, Alice realizes. If only then, _right then_, it feels as though he cares so deeply for her that he clings and clasps tightly, and Alice feels sure that if he never wakes, if they spend forever and beyond in his musty bed holding each other, she will be content.

* * *

"Your Majesty," the Steward of the Marmoreal bows rather stiffly before his queen, white curls falling errantly from the thin ribbon that normally holds them in place at the back of his neck. Mirana, feeling as though she has been run over by the Bandersnatch, reclines as gracefully as she can manage in the chair behind her large desk. She nods once towards Elisud, who has been in her service since before she had taken the title of Queen - in truth, he had _actually _been in her _parent's_ service, but it was much the same, as Time passes on.

"Steward Elisud," Mirana acknowledges him, fluttering one hand and smiling as kindly as she possibly can when so much as a twitch of her lips makes her aching stomach roll violently, "Is there something I can assist you with?"

"A section of guards have been sent to escort the Royal Hatter and your Champion from the March Hare's residence, as you requested."

"Wonderful," Mirana's smile widens, her chin dipping in a short nod. "Thank you for informing me, Steward Elisud."

"There is…" the Steward pauses, clearing his throat once, fingertips and eyes jerking to the side as his jaw clinches and releases in several tight movements. "There is another matter the requires your attention, Majesty."

"And that would be…?"

"A messenger has arrived, Majesty. He refuses to provide the missive into any hands but your own." Mirana's dark eyebrows lift in a silent query, and she leans forward, fingers wriggling in a soft gesture of unease and worry.

"Where is this messenger from?"

"Nowhere," the Steward gives her a desperate sort of look, "He claims he comes from Nowhere."

Mirana stares for a long moment, shock slackening her face. Her stomach heaves once again, and she drops one hand to press it there, hoping that touch might ease the rolling and rocking movements of her innards. She stands as quickly as she can, schooling her expression into one of gentle inquiry, and not the shock-panic-worry that is zinging through her blood and pounding through her already aching, trembling mind.

She had been Summoned to see the Dream Weaver – and now a messenger has arrived from Nowhere, insisting only to provide the message to her…there is something afoot, Mirana knows, some game that she is yet unaware of. Underland has been whispering to it's Queen for quite some Time, now; _newcomers, shadows, golden light and eyes and blood – _Mirana can only guess at what is happening, though there is a part of her that feels sure she will not find all the answers on her own.

"We will meet with him, then." The Steward jerks his head once, taking a shaking step forward.

"Majesty, I must ask you to take guards with you."

"Guards?" Mirana's eyebrows rise once more as she floats around her desk, tipping her chin and blinking dark eyes at her Steward. "Whatever would I need guards for, Steward? It is only a messenger."

"He is a messenger because he carries a message," the Steward says lowly, shaking his head once. "But he is much more then that, Majesty. Please. Take guards with you."

"To ease your mind," Mirana promises him, moving quickly forward, taking his care and Time worn hand in her own. She smiles at him, earning a shaking, trembling twist of his lips in return. "Come, now."

She calls five guards to her before she goes to the throne room, and they take up position around the small dais that holds her throne. Elisud stands behind her throne and to her left, hands carefully folded before him, eyes nervous and darting as he watches that slender double doors that mark the entrance to the grand room. Mirana dismisses the courtiers – unsure of what this message might hold, unwilling to risk an upheaval in her Court – before she gestures to have the messenger brought in.

No name is announced – Mirana assumes he refused to provide it.

The man that comes before her, long strides eating up the space from the doorway to the dais, is striking. Golden curls halo about his handsome face, a bit too long, and it gives him a roguish air. His eyes are golden, bright and striking. He is tall, well muscled – his arms are bare, as well as his neck and a bit of his chest. Mirana can see the scars that flow over him, a roadmap of battles fought; they line his wrists and arms, shoulders and neck. One is particularly frightful, puckered and white and old, and it begins on the side of his neck and dives under his leather tunic. The Healer inside Mirana winces at the sight of such things, and her already ill stomach turns uneasily.

"Mirana, White Queen of Underland," the man does not drop to his knees or grovel, as many tend to. He simply bows, neck stiff, back straight. "I bring you a message from the Hell King and Queen of Nowhere."

"Underland does not often correspond with Nowhere or it's royals," Mirana answers him, working hard to keep the smile on her face, "What has brought their attention to Underland?"

"Their Majesties wish to inform you that they believe there may be two certain godlings in Underland. The arrival of these men bring only chaos and darkness, White Queen, and it is the deep wish of both the Wild God and the Iron Queen to see that Underland is safe and protected from this threat. The High Council is of the same mind as well, and extends their wishes that you will accept the help of the Hell Ones in this matter."

"All of Underland is indebted to both the Hell Ones and the High Council of the Gods for their offers of protection, as well as their thoughtfulness. It should be noted, however, that I am in possession of an army of my own, and the security of Underland has always been – and will continue to be – my greatest goal." Mirana softens her smile, extends her hand and lowers her eyelashes a bit, "It is assured that Underland is well protected, messenger."

The man moves so swiftly that Mirana cannot track him. She can only shriek as a spear flies past her head, and leaps from her throne, one hand gripping her skirt as she takes several steps to the side. Elisud grabs her arm with a cry of "_Majesty_!" before tucking her behind him.

The messenger stands, once again, before Mirana's throne. Her five guards are incapacitated on the marble floor, two groaning and dazed, while the remaining three are knocked out entirely.

"White Queen, please allow me to assure you that your army would fall before the Unnamed Ones swiftly. I am considered a skilled warrior in Nowhere, Your Highness, but I am afraid that unless Luck was granting me favors, I would be felled by the Unnamed Ones." The messenger takes two steps forward, hand lifting, tugging away the soft leather of his tunic. He directs her eyes to the scar that so caught Mirana's attention before, and even though laces have been loosened, Mirana still cannot see the entirety of it. It is ugly and mean looking, and it makes Mirana's head throb worse then it already was. "One of them gave me this when I was but a child. A child that should have been dear to him, do you understand? They would ravage Underland. If they take Underland, others will follow. Aboveland, where the mortals reside. Nowhere, the Otherworld – Kore, Speaker of the Prophecies, has Seen this."

Mirana stares, swallowing hard, both heart and mind heavy and troubled.

"May I ask," she speaks quietly, "Do they train all messengers in Warrior Arts in Nowhere?"

"I am a messenger on behalf of my parents, not by trade," the man bows again, not taking his eyes off Mirana. His smile is a bit amused, and entirely smug. "I am Prince Riley of Nowhere, eldest child of Kore and Cern."

"Ah," Mirana says breathily, forgetting float on her way back to her throne. Settles herself carefully on that seat, smooth her skirts, taking time to gather her thoughts. "It is important, if they are sending a Prince of the Realm to bring news, then."

"You have no idea how important, Your Majesty," Prince Riley swears, his eyes bright, "Underland is not safe."

"And what are your kind parents offering Underland, Prince?"

"After careful thought," Mirana saw his lips twitch, and reads between the lines enough to assume that _careful thought_ meant _heated debate that bordered on violence_ (or perhaps that was her Imagination running away with her again), "They have decided to send in a skilled warrior to evaluated and then provide your army with additional training. If need be, we are more then willing to supplement your own warriors with our own armies. My parents would take great honor in defending Underland – they will take up their own weapons, if it comes to that, to defend this land."

"Who are these Unnamed Ones?" The prince stares at her for a long, long moment. His face drops all emotion and expression, his eyes darken and his lips narrow, and he is only a cold, stoic mask. His hands, Mirana is startled to note, tremble finely at his sides.

"They are every Nightmare and Ill Thought in all Time," he answers her, "They are…they are Chaos. We saw the trouble you had with your sister, the Red Queen. The things that she did to Underland would be a joy in the face of what those creatures can – and _will_, if given the chance – do. To name them gives them power, and so I will not speak that secret to you, Majesty – I hope it is not seen as an offense to you."

"No," Mirana waves her hand, fingers curling and releasing gracefully. "I understand, Prince. Are you the warrior that they will be sending – have sent?"

"No," the prince's smile comes to life, grows wide and almost boyish. It takes little for Mirana to picture him as a young child, dirt on his nose, causing mischief and climbing trees. She has a sudden and violent urge to feed him and fluff his pillows, possibly tell a bedtime story or two, and makes a note to see if it's possible to visit an orphanage and adopt a child or twenty to sooth her maternal urges. "There is a particular warrior that my parents have in mind, and will send, if you so accept our offer."

"And this warrior…?"

"Princess Ophelia of Nowhere," he says rather happily, and is cheeky enough to give her a wink. Mirana decides she likes him immensely on the fact that he is full of enough Muchness to power a Muchness train to the moon and back again. "My sister. She is _highly_ skilled, Majesty. She takes after our mother."

"I'm sure," Mirana says shortly, before pulling her smile back into place.

"Others will come in and out, with your permission," he blinks, and looks much younger the she suspects – physically _or_ mentally - he actually is, "We're…a close family, White Queen. We dislike being apart for long times. If it wouldn't trouble you, of course, I do understand if you would not wish more then one godling cluttering up Marmoreal at once – however, we would like the opportunity to see our sister, visit her, help her, while she is here."

"Far be it from me to keep family apart," Mirana's smile is much more genuine this time, and she gives him a soft look. "You may visit your sister anytime you please. Prince Riley, please inform the kind Hell Ones that Underland accepts their offer of guidance and protection."

"They will be pleased to hear this, Majesty," Prince Riley bows, curls falling his eyes as he gives her a dimpled grin of relief.

"Would you like to rest?" Mirana offers, one hand moving elegantly towards the still gaping, trembling Steward aside her throne, "Elisud can see that a room is arranged for you, and that you are fed. I am sure you are tired after your travels."

"I can't stay," the prince informs her, before his dimple is back in sight, "But I wouldn't mind a bite to eat, if it wouldn't trouble your Majesty overly much."

"Of course not," she answers with a hint of laughter in her words. She turns, wiggling her fingertips at the Prince. "Stewart, please see that food is prepared for our visiting Prince. I will dine with him in my sitting room."

"Majesty," Elisud murmurs in a way that Mirana knows to mean he is displeased with her choices, but he turns and leaves, following her orders at once.

When Mirana stands, the prince offers his arm. Mirana accepts it with a soft beam, and she can only imagine that his mother beat such courtly manners into his head.

"Um," the prince says after a few steps, "I'm…sorry about your guards. I needed to get my point across, however, and it was the most efficient option."

"I have taken Vows," Mirana says rather loftily, holding her skirts with one dainty hand, "I do not often condone violence. But if one man can topple five of my best knights, I do believe they can pick themselves up and make their way to the training fields to perfect the Warrior Arts they have devoted themselves to."

Behind her there are several low grumbles, and the Wounded Pride is an actual taste in the air from the conscious guards.

* * *

Alice wakes in the late afternoon, in soft layers of sunshine, with the quilt twisted around her feet. She is hot and sticky, her mouth tastes foul, and she is being groped. One of those things does not belong in her normal wake-up rituals, and her eyes shoot open as she realizes that there is a calloused, bandaged hand cupping her breast. She struggles to breathe. A hand that is attached to Hatter, a Hatter that is named Tarrant, a Tarrant that Alice has always wanted to be in this _exact_ position with –

She wonders, for a moment, what the appropriate reaction is. She wants to shriek and squeal and fall apart, like a teenager getting a kiss from idol. She is horrified at what Tarrant would think of her if she does such a thing, and so she nearly bites her lip in half to keep quiet, to keep calm, to not _freak out_.

Tarrant Hightopp is groping her. In his sleep, but that _isn't the point_, he is groping, and – and –

Alice decides she feels a bit faint, and sags weakly against him. At least until she feels, from the closeness of their bodies, that there are parts of Tarrant that are Quite Pleased to involved, and are _not_ sleeping. It is, actually, wide awake, and ready to greet the world. Or Alice. It takes a supreme effort to not roll the sleeping milliner on his back, yank his trousers down, and take horrible advantage of him. Alice is vaguely surprised that she can resist said urges, and to congratulate herself, she allows her mind to run away and bask in all the dirty, filthy things she would _like_ to be doing at the moment. Several minutes of that lead her realize that maybe - just maybe - getting herself all worked with steamy fantasies is not a good option.

And then she thinks about how awkward it is going to be when Tarrant wakes to finds his hand on her breast. What if it's only a subconscious action, because he is_ male_, she is _female_, and this sort of thing _happens_ in a bed? He'll be horrified. He'll probably never look directly at her again. She likes his eyes too much for that.

Alice slips her hand under her shirt, which has ridden up and is covering very little aside from Tarrant knuckles and parts of his fingers, and takes a hold of his wrist. It is only natural that Fate – who has been kind long enough – goes back to chortling in amusement at the fools she loves to torture. Meaning that Tarrant takes _that_ moment, that _exact_ moment, to mutter, and shift, and begin to wake up. Without letting go of her breast. Actually, he caresses it bit, brushes his fingers over her nipple; Alice's toes curl, and her tongue ties into a knot, and she is fairly certain her brain is on fire. Spontaneous cranial combustion.

She pauses to collect herself, breathing deeply, and then curses herself for breathing at all. It only makes the…_issue_…rather worse.

And then? As Alice is debating if she can move his hand without fully waking him, as she twists a bit to peer at his face and judge his level of alertness, he opens his eyes. They are like bright moss, deep and hazy and _happy_. He smiles at her, pink lipped and magenta cheeked, the gap between his teeth endearing. Alice is fairly certain her emotional knees are bruised from the crash landing she takes as her heart soars, her body tenses, her breath whooshes – as Tarrant keeps smiling, and tugs her closer, and says, in a wonder drenched voice,

"Good mornin', my Alice."

Alice says something that sounds rather like _"Guh_," gives up on speech entirely, and vaguely wonders if she's dribbling on herself while she smiles like an idiot, or if she is only doing the idiotic smiling bit. They spend an absolutely obscene amount of time smiling at each other. Alice would have made fun of any anyone else doing such a thing – but she can't seem to _stop_ smiling, and it's obvious Tarrant can't either. So there's nothing to do but smile, and it would be silly to smile at, say, the chair, or his Hat, so the smile at each other.

It's completely logical, she insists, _absolutely_ logical.

They only stop when Tarrant shifts a bit, and his attention his drawn to the fact that his sleeping hands were idle, and looking for something to do. The only thing to occupy themselves with had been Alice, obviously; one was outstretched and tangled in her hair – the other, however…well, Alice already knows where it is at, and she had accepted it, but Tarrant hadn't been allowed Time for such a thing.

"_I'msosorry_," he says in a violent rush, hand raking down her belly (Alice shudders, wriggling as he moves his hand, so she is on her opposite side, facing him to stop her neck from screaming at her), and a little voice in Alice's head _promises_ a touch like _that_ isn't entirely accidental. But his hand moves quickly, and he presses it to his thigh, looking mortified. "_I'm sorry, Alice_!"

"It's fine," she assures him, though she can feel the blush heating up her cheeks, "I…really, it's fine."

"Nae!" he insists, eyes wild as he props himself up on one elbow and scoots away from her. Their lack of physical contact is like a pain; an ache that burns and tears flesh, and Alice can't stop from wincing. "I dinna – I shoul'na – ye dinna _wan'_ me ta –"

"It's fine," she says firmly, and she suspects that Lust is pretending to be Logic, because it seems the best way to convince him that _really_, groping her – awake or asleep – is okay in her book is by kissing him. So she lunges forward, knocks him on his back, nearly sends them tumbling both off the bed. Their lips press together awkwardly, slid a bit off to the side, and Alice's nose bumps into Tarrant's face. If she hadn't been so overwhelmed by Tarrant and Touching and _Touching Tarrant_, she would have howled in mortification and fled.

As it was she could only give a soft, nearly wordless gibber, sighing against his chapped lips, propping herself with one arm against his chest as she slides her mouth into a better position.

And then she _truly_ kisses the Mad Hatter.

Tarrant, for his part, is _still_. Perfectly so, painfully so – to the point that tears prick Alice's eyes, and she wonders if she can be quick enough to make it to Tarrant's claymore (against the wall, beside the bed, next to Tarrant) and impale herself on it out of sheer humiliation before Tarrant can stop her. She starts to pull away, her mouth opening, a soft noise that might have been "_Sorry_," leaving her lips and brushing against his – and that, it seems, is what it takes to awaken the man under her.

His hands find her hair, and they dig in, tangling in her already messy, sleep knotted curls. He holds her in place as he comes to life, a groan crawling from his chest to his throat, drips from his tongue and into Alice's body – he shifts, and drapes a leg over Alice's as he catches her bottom lip between his teeth, nips twice, swipes his tongue over the small pain and makes stars explode behind Alice's eyelids. She gives a noise – something breathless and needy – realizing only dimly that her hand has gained a life of _it's_ own, and shoved its way under Tarrant's shirt. She curls her fingers over his ribs, finds skin and old scars, and both entrance her.

Tarrant growls – _actually growls! –_ and Alice finds herself on her back, head on a pillow. Her legs move of their own violation, opening, and Tarrant settles himself there, in the cradle they make. He frees one hand from her hair, props himself above her with it, and when Alice opens her mouth he tastes deeply of her. She moans – writhes beneath him, pushing against him, world spinning apart and remaking, as this moment, _this moment_, is the realest thing she has ever, ever known.

He gives a noise – low and deep and _desperate_ – and Alice nearly cries as she realizes it is her name. She wants to hold him against her, claw at fabric until there is nothing between them but air and sweat, and know the feeling of having him inside her body. She has never felt this way before, _never_, and it is nearly ripping her apart –

It takes her a moment to realize that the pounding she hears _isn't_ her heart. And it isn't, as she fancies for a brief second, Tarrant's.

There is someone knocking…

There is someone knocking on their door.

There is someone knocking on their door, and she is going to brutally murder them.

"_No_," she gasps when Tarrant lifts his head, his ragged breath gusting across her face. Her hands move upwards, curl over his cheeks, attempting to drag him back down. "No, no – please ignore it, _please_ –"

He _groans_ – the pounding continues, but he swoops down, kisses her again, leans heavily against her, pressing her into the mattress. Alice curls her legs upwards, locks her ankles together at the small of his back and swears on – on everything holy, on – on Hamish's Star Wars figurines, that she is _never, never, never letting him go _–

"Alice?" Hamish's voice bursts their bubble. Tarrant growls, and it is not a happy noise. He lifts his head, narrows his eyes, and Alice thinks he is attempting to kill Hamish with his brain. "Stop playing with the Hatter's bits, there's walking chess pieces outside that the White Queen sent to take us to Marmoreal."

"I just woke up," Alice says, and hopes that explains why her voice is husky and trembling, and it has nothing to do with the fact Tarrant has dropped his head and is kissing her neck – and – and– "Oh, God…"

"Oh, God, what? _What are you two doing in there_?" The doorknob rattles, and Alice realizes that Tarrant had locked the door when he came into the room that morning. Alice could kiss him for it. In fact, she just might. "Alice? Don't _make_ me break the bloody door down! Stop touching Alice, you pervert!"

"_Hamish_," Alice howls, "I'm going to castrate you if you don't_ go away_!"

Tarrant flops onto her, and begins to giggle violently against her shoulder. Alice debates setting Hamish on fire.

"We're awake," she snarls at the door, "We're awake, and not doing anything _now_," the now she adds on just to hear Hamish give a girlish shriek of disgust from the hall, "So _go away_!"

"Ten minutes," he informs her, "And then I'm really breaking the door – _ow_! You _stabbed me_!"

"Stop threatenin' 'em!" Mally roars – as much as a dormouse can roar, at least. "An' go on! An' I can get in there, ya two! Don't _make_ me come get ya!"

Alice feels rather like a scolded teenager. Tarrant giggles turn to badly muffled howls. Alice sighs, and puts a hand over her eyes.

"Not how I imagined this happening," she mutters, "Not at _all_."

Tarrant kicks the bed a few times, and his laughter is so uncontrollable at that point that he begins to snort. The mood is officially ruined, and Alice is going to kill Hamish, have a firm discussion with Mally, and…and she snogged Tarrant Hightopp.

The fact is only just beginning to set in.

_She_ snogged _Tarrant bloody Hightopp_.

"_Guh_," she says, and when Tarrant lifts his head and shows her his twinkling, teary eyes, there is only a moment of silence before they are _both_ giggling like school children on a playground.

* * *

The White Queen thought of nearly everything when she sent guards to the rather motley crew residing at the Windmill back to Marmoreal. A small cart was sent for belongings and Thackery, and Alice has only brief moment to envision the March Hare on horse back before she is wincing and shaking it away, knowing it would be rather…traumatic for all involved. Thackery hops into it after he and Tarrant's small collection of belongings are placed on it, Mallymkun on his shoulder, the two of them chattering away about wheels and teacups.

What they _hadn't_ been expected was that there would be a second Abovelander to take to Marmoreal. And so there are only two horses – one for Tarrant and one for Alice – waiting for them. Alice supposes she's going to have to ride with Hamish, and has a moment of thankfulness that she and Hamish are avid polo players, and will have no problems on horseback. Except for the riding _together_ part, that might cause problems as they have a disturbing tendency to fight over _everything_. Their mothers are always horrified to watch them dance, as if Alice doesn't keep herself under control there is a hard battle between them as to who will lead, and the struggle can turn a waltz into a graceless stomping fit.

"Aren't you handsome…" Hamish croons to the nearest horse, a dappled gray stallion with bright eyes and flickering tail. He runs his hand over the warm, soft neck of the animal, looking completely besotted.

"Thank you," the stallion answers, turning to eye Hamish. "I've never been much for red heads, but you aren't a complete loss."

Alice shoves her knuckles in her mouth to keep from roaring with laughter as Hamish hops backwards, eyes wide and mouth open.

"Alice," he doesn't take his eyes off the animal, though he pitches his voice into a low tone of disbelief, "Alice, the horse is talking to me."

"What, were you expecting a mute?" The stallion asks, ears lying back as he stomped sideways.

"Ah," Hamish pauses, blinking several times, "_Well_…where I'm from, horses don't talk."

"How strange," the handsome fellow replies, ears picking back up, as he mulls this news over. "Perhaps they're shy?"

"Perhaps," Hamish agrees faintly.

"Well, then, m'names Knickerbocker, and I'll be taking you back to Marmoreal."

"Hamish Ascot. It's a pleasure to meet you, Knickerbocker." The bewildered look does not fade from Hamish's face.

"_Freckles_!" Thackery shouts from the small wagon, and Knickerbocker gives a nickering laugh.

"Freckles!" He says cheerfully, "Well, that's more fitting them Hamish! Come on, Freckles, up you get! I do hope you know how to ride, I hate carrying around blokes that are always falling off."

"I'm quite proficient," Hamish rallies himself wonderfully, taking hold of the pommel of the saddle and placing his left foot in the stirrup. He pulls himself up before swinging his leg over and settling into place, taking up the reins. "So, Knickerbocker, how do you feel about jumping?"

"How high do you want to go?'

"How high _can_ you go?"

"Lad," Knickerbocker chortles, "You might want to hang on once we get started."

"Any fences around here, you suppose?"

"Several. I'll give up sugar cubes for a week if you don't land in a brook before we get to the Castle."

"Oh, it's _on_."

Alice has to laugh at them, because Hamish is doing his male posturing thing with a _horse_, and it's so…sweet to watch, really, and so _right_. As though this is where she and Hamish are both meant to be, with talking horses and Mad March Hares, on their way to Marmoreal -

"Alice?" She turns, and is met with the sight of Tarrant. He is fully clothed (which a shame, she can't help but think with a pang), Hat firmly in place, and – and _yes_, that is his claymore across his back. Alice's brain gives a shriek of gleeful lust before it completely shuts down, leaving her to stand, gaping at him like an idiot. He gives her a shy smile, gesturing towards the remaining mount. "I am sorry, Alice, but it seems we'll be riding together."

Alice comes _this close_ to cheering out loud, before she plasters a smile on her face and nods several times.

"Yes, yes of course – I certainly can't ride with Hamish, seeing how he and Knickerbocker are going to be jumping every fence and ditch they can find on their way there." And then, because if she stares at him any longer it will move from Wondering to Creepy, she darts forward and quickly sets one foot to a stirrup and settles her on the horse. She leans over the neck of their mount (another stallion, jet black with white socks and a pale starburst on his forehead), and introduces herself. "I'm Alice Kingsleigh."

"I know," the stallion says in obvious glee, "I know! _The_ Alice, Alice of Aboveland, _Champion Alice_! I'm so honored to take you to Marmoreal, Champion, really, m'wife is never going to believe this! And I – oh, I'm Fred."

"Fred?" Alice questions, absurdly tickled at the idea of the grand fellow being named _Fred_.

"Fred," he says firmly, "Short for Fredrick, but only my mum calls me that. Ah – might want to scoot up a bit, Lady Champion, the Hatter is coming up."

Alice turns her head, peering to the left, her body flooded with flames as Tarrant gives her a…a yes, she would call that smile _roguish_ rather then _shy_, from under his Hat brim moments before he vaults upwards. His long legs swing over either side of the horse, and he slips his feet into the stirrups that Alice left empty for him. Alice swallows hard when his arm comes around her waist, tugging her back against him – not tightly, no, not _nearly_ as tightly as she would like – holding onto her as he takes the reins with his other hand.

"Are you ready?" He asks, and she doesn't look at him, is mortified because she is having the thoughts of a teenage girl, not a supposedly mature adult that is beyond turning every comment from a handsome man into something suggestive.

"Yes," she clears her throat, horrified to hear her voice squeaking, "Yes, yes quite ready."

"Positions," A Bishop cries loudly, and Knights take up stances aside the horses, two pawns flank the wagon, while a Rook takes up station behind them all.

"Oi, Alice!" She turns her head to look at Hamish, who isn't glaring Tarrant down – as he had been doing all afternoon, once he and Alice had left the bedroom – and is actually smiling, looking sun burnt but happy. "This is kind of like that story you wrote. Remember? We were…oh, thirteen? _Fields of Passion_?"

Alice has to pause a moment, blinking as she thinks back. She never wrote – oh wait. Yes she did. It involved herself, Tarrant, and a horse. And a shaded glade where she lost her virginity, and –

"_Hamish_!" She squawks, looking horrified. "You – you -"

"_So_," he grins, and Alice wishes she had something to throw at him, "How _is_ The Mighty Hightopp Penis?"

Of all the things for Hamish to remember from that piece of romance-novel inspired rubbish she'd written those long years before…

Tarrant chokes – _loudly_. Alice swears even louder. Hamish cackles, digs his heals into Knickerbocker's sides, and they shoot off, darting between a Knight and the Bishop, speeding away from their company.

"Lord Hamish!" The Bishop cries, waving one hand, "Sir, I must ask you – we need to stay – _come back here_!"

"_Fence_!" Knickerbocker bellows while Hamish whoops, and then they are flying through the air, and the sunlight glints off Hamish's hair and Knickerbocker's flowing tail and mane. They land gracefully in an unworked field beyond the falling down fence, while Hamish chortles and Knickerbocker prances, before he picks up speed to take the return jump over the fence.

"I'll kill him," Alice announces in mortification, "I'm going to kill him."

"Mighty Hightopp…" Tarrant chokes, and Alice lifts her hands, hiding her face behind him. The Knights are wheezing in a manner that suggests that are close to falling into hysterical gales of laughter, and doing their best _not_ to. "Wot kind o' stories ye writin', lassie?" Tarrant asks, before he's laughing rather madly. Alice groans, shaking her head, and refuses to say another word.


	7. Chapter Seven

**A/N: These chapters keep getting longer and longer. Ah…not much else to say, at the moment. All my love and devotion to my beta's – ingenious_spark and fiducia – who make the crap that I spew out slightly more tolerable. Worship them I say! Upped the rating of YIP due to the gratuitous use of foul language and disturbing imagery. Giant thank you's goes out to all my readers and reviewers; I appreciate every kind word and moment spent on this story. Reviews are love, and constructive criticism is always welcome – any way I can improve as a writer is a Good Thing.**

**Nih-Tanta translates to _grandfather_. Asling is a term of endearment, rather like darling or sweetheart. Isle is a term of measurement; one isle equals about a mile and a half. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland in any form. I do own all original characters, and that just proves my lack of sanity. Seriously.**

Ophelia of Nowhere knows how to go about battle and battle strategy, knows it's just enough like chess that she's rather brilliant at it. A lot of people – the mortals that know about Such Things, masses of godlings, even a few deities – believe that it's all just a gift from the bloodline of Teutates. That sort of brilliance at all things War, but Ophelia also knows that it's _not_. Some people just have quick minds that naturally take that to that sort of thing, while others have enough internal resolve, or viciousness, or even a way to shut out their emotions that they are able to do battle, bring blood and death and destruction. And while they mourn it, they continue to have those Wars in the face of what they believe is right and good and just, and it isn't a matter of bloodlines, it's a matter of mind.

It certainly helps, she knows, when one is brought up on it.

Before she was Ophelia of Nowhere, before her mother was the Hell Queen and before her Da was her Da, Ophelia lived in a cottage in the beauty of Sideways. There was always fighting and blood, death and chaos and the uncertainty of never knowing if everyone she loved was going to be alive the same time tomorrow. Ophelia saw her siblings murdered, either by hands that didn't love, or hands that loved but in such a sickening way that it wasn't love at all, not really, but a disease. Ophelia stayed close to her mother's side when the younger children were born, crying as Kore screamed, as blood and thick fluids soaked the hardwood floor.

Ophelia studied Kore carefully in between children and deaths and _at-this-moment_-survival.

Kore is a brilliant Maker of War, a grand strategist. Not just epic battles against legions and hordes, but small, quiet battles that are all shadow and secrets and waiting-waiting -_waiting_ for the **perfect** moment to strike. Ophelia learned it at her mother's knee, really. She learned how to study the layout of land to determine how enemies might place the formations of their armies, and how to _use_ those layouts to her advantage. She learned how to make the hard choices, when to give up and when to keep fighting; when to let Warriors go into battle knowing they will die, when to let the enemy retreat simply because there is no other choice at that time. She learned how to kill, and how to do it in such a way that it is a macabre art and not simply mindless horror.

Her first kill _wasn't_ a kill, not really, but she wanted it to be. She took one of her Mam's dirks – the ones she hides in her tall boots – to That Man. She ran at him when he had her Mammie pinned to the wall, as Kore was choking and flailing, spitting mad, and even at Ophelia's tender age she understood that her mother would have gladly killed him if she didn't fear for the lives of her living children.

Ophelia didn't give a shit. Ophelia stopped giving a shit years ago – figured it would be better to be dead than with Either of Them for a moment longer, and it would save her the trouble of taking beatings for the little ones if every single one of them (herself included) were just dead, dead, _dead_. No more crying, or hurting, or pain. Just silence and that kind man with the sad eyes, that Wild God that looked at Mammie like she was the world, and touched her like she was made of dreams. _He_ would keep them safe.

(She remembers thinking that she wished he was her Papa and not That Man, and sometimes she supposes she got a bit of Kore's gift for Prophecy, as well.)

She drove the dirk into the soft flesh of his stomach, above his hipbone, and wriggled her thin body between those of her parents. She jerked the knife to the side, tore through muscle and spare bits of fat, and she was too consumed in her thoughts of _I hate you, I hope you die, I never want you to touch me or Mammie or Riley or the little ones __**again**_ to be repulsed by the spray of blood, of fluid, of guts slipping slimy and wet from torn flesh. He howled like an animal, hands clutching his stomach, jerking backwards.

She left the dirk in his stomach, and smiled like her mother.

"Touch her and I'll kill you," she remembers Kore hissing, pushing Ophelia behind her back, "Do you realize what you've done? They hate you, Tali. They _hate_ you."

And then her Papa was on the floor, sobbing and crying, holding in his guts with one big hand, and something like sanity flickering in his brown eyes. He cried until he was sick, and he begged Mammie to forgive him, and Mammie cried too. Riley took Ophelia outside with the babies (only two little ones left, now) and they watched through a window as Kore kissed Papa and tried to drive a dagger through his throat. The Badness took him back, though, and while _I'm Sorry_ Papa might have died to save his family, _I'll Kill You_ Papa sure as hell wouldn't die for them.

Ophelia hadn't taken a life, that day, but she would have, if she had been able to. She thinks of it as her first kill, and sometimes the memory is so painful it comes in Nightmares. And despite the fact she's a grown godling, though young and rather untried, she screams until her Da comes rushing in. He holds her tight, rocks her, kisses her eyelids and gives her dreams of sweet, pleasant, silly things. He stays there all night, all morning, until Ophelia wakes up; he always has, always will, and Ophelia knows that is what makes him_ Da_ and not _Papa_.

Yes, Ophelia was born to such things.

She wanders through Underland, taking in hills and valleys and mountains, lochs and beaches, because _know_ it is much different then planning attacks on a map. She wants to make sure that when the Unnamed Ones make War with Underland that she can put a strong defense, because she'll be damned – everyone will be damned – if they take Underland.

In Witzend she finds a Living Nightmare. It is the specialty of the Unnamed Ones. Not great displays of power, astounding shows of magic; just mindless, senseless brutality, the slaughtering of Innocents. The Unnamed Ones are for Chaos, and Chaos works through their torn minds, ragged souls, and solid, capable hands. A part of her wants to run, run far, far away from the stench of blood and fecal matter, from stinking gut wounds and the gurgling of the almost-but-not-quite yet dead. It makes her feel little, a child hiding in the cottage, peering out the window as Mammie fights like a wild thing, one godling woman against the crazed army the Unnamed Ones gathered.

It makes her think of Michael. _That_ is her worst memory, Michael, because it's hard to remember him alive and laughing and clutching her hand as they race through forest on a summer afternoon, clutching at a moment of peace. But the reminder of Michael makes her vicious, more vicious than she will probably ever be, otherwise, and she draws her weapons. One short sword (its twin sheathed on her left hip), her other hand pulling free a war hammer.

She has the notion that she'll probably die, if she fights the Unnamed Ones alone. But she is smart enough to realize she's got enough survivors guilt to sink a fleet of ships if its weight was cargo, and she doesn't care. _She_ was supposed to die in Sideways, and Michael and the other little ones might have lived, if only it had been her blood that ran like a red river and coated their mother's hands. Instead she'll die in Witzend, surrounded by a small Outland Clan that she doesn't know, but they will become kin in death.

(And she'll go her Mam before she goes to the River, kiss Mammie's cheeks and hands and swear, swear on her gone life, that Mammie was the _best_ Mammie any child could ask for.)

"Ophelia," the voice that speaks is deep and rich, a smooth tenor that is like cold starlight and always, even at its most gentle, for Ophelia carries the sound of the dying. She turns to her right, narrows her eyes on the tall figure that has appeared, and bares her teeth in a snarl. The elder of the Unnamed Ones – her Uncle Gavin, if she cared to place such familial ties to him, which she doesn't – steps forward, warrior locks swinging at the sides of his sharp, handsome face. "Asling, you've grown since I last saw you."

Ophelia resists the urge to spit in his face. She settles for swiftly calculating if she can rush forward and bash him in the head with her hammer before he can stop her.

"You look like your mother," he gives her a genial smile, his eyes doting, "And look – is that Kore's First Swords you have? I hadn't thought you were old enough to inherit them, yet."

Still Ophelia does not answer. The Dark One does not seem to care.

"And you look…" the gentle pride in his eyes fading to something dark and hungry, empty hands curling into tight fists before releasing with the _crack_ of his knuckles, "You look like your Mammie. You know that, don't you, Ophelia? You look…so much like her…"

Ophelia sees that he is lost in his sickness, his disease, understands that he is so entranced by the shape of her face, curve of her lips, and the roundness of her hips that she could probably burst into song and he wouldn't notice. So she walks forward, ignores the tightness of her stomach and throws a swing into her hips. She twirls her sword in one hand, a gesture she learned from her mother; it is not aggressive or warning, but an idle habit that Kore takes when she is thinking or brooding or simply has nothing _else_ to do with her hands.

He gives a whisper of a noise – a groan, a moan, a sigh? It sounds rather like _My Korie_, and Ophelia sees red moments before she lunges.

Hard metal meets bone, bone cracks and shatters loudly, and blood gushes forward. Ophelia gives a feral smile as he howls and staggers backwards, controls the rest of her swing as she draws her hammer back and twirls her sword a few more times before she takes up a defensive position with it.

"_Bitch_ –" the Dark One is howling, clutching at his shattered head, laughing despite his pain and anger, crawling away, "Little _bitch_! Like Kore – so much like her – I was right to convince him to keep you, yes, you're _just_ like her -"

"She'll make mighty warriors," a voice that still has the ability to spark raw, sheer, _primal _terror in Ophelia speaks before there is a rush of air and The Golden One is before Ophelia, hoisting the longer limbed, much thinner frame of his comrade over his strong shoulders. He smiles at Ophelia (Alex's smile, Ophelia notes on a surge of horror), his free hand curling into a fist. Before she can move he reaches out and chucks her lightly under the chin, winking and beaming as though she was small and she'd done something new and sweet. "You _do_ look like your Mam, Ophie, but you got my eyes. And my abilities with that war hammer – I remember teaching you how to swing it."

Ophelia takes a mad lunge forward with her sword – she misses entirely, and the Golden One laughs.

"Too young," he comments, "Too angry. Focus that anger, asling, and _then_ you might be able to do me in."

His bare arms and chest – so thick and corded with muscle that he looks like Atlas, as though he could hold up the world – flex and ripple as he lifts his hand, and kisses the tip of his finger. He taps it against her nose, before the air swirls and both are gone.

Ophelia curses until the trees began to loose their leaves from the vulgarity and anger she carries. She stomps around the slaughter ground, kicks a few rocks, and finally gives in and screams at the sky. She has the feeling they're watching her; she doesn't rightly give a shit.

Eventually she turns her attention to the almost-but-not-quite dead. Its one thing she hates doing, but letting them have a slow death after their minds and cellular structure has been torn to ribbons by twisted Wild Magic is something she _can't_ allow. She doesn't use knives or swords or her hammer; she just puts her hand over their forehead, whispers kind words as she draws their souls from their flesh and sends them on their way to Nowhere.

When that is done, she leaves them where they lay. She'll send members of the White Army and the White Queen's War Council to bear witness to the horrors that are coming to Underland, so they'll understand. If there is no one else to claim the bodies once matters of state have been handled, Ophelia promises that she'll return, and see them properly laid to rest.

By the time she arrives at Marmoreal Ophelia is a positively black fury. She doesn't see any reason to place nice little court games of _how-do-you-do_ and _let-me-welcome-you_ and _won't-you-please-accept-this-token-Princess_ with the White Queen or the White Court. There are monsters in Underland, and she is there to do a job. And really, there's only one to determine if the White Army can defend themselves, much less Underland. She needs to see them under attack. More then that, she needs them to think she is an enemy, and not a foreign Princess that has been sent to test them; so she sneaks into Marmoreal like a shadow, hovering on the edges and watches for a short time.

Then she finds a good portion of the White Army on the training field. She watches them, a rotten taste entering her mouth as she sees them loosing rank and line, falling out of formation – and completely and utterly bungling up a Phalanx formation. Which isn't _hard_, really, she's helped her Da and Mam and her Nih-Tanta with the training – hell, she'd gone _through_ the training.

How they have fought in a war and not managed a tight Phalanx is beyond her.

Perhaps they'd only grown dull, and weren't useless after all…? Only one way to find out, really.

Ophelia attacks Marmoreal.

* * *

After a short learning period, Hamish and Knickerbocker are doing the Electric Slide on the banks of the Snodmod River. They are on a short break, a little over halfway to Marmoreal, and it is mostly to let the two-leggers (that aren't part of the White Army, that is) stretch their legs out. Alice is just thankful for a chance to stretch out, and then sit down with back against a tree, falling limp. Her back has been straight and rigid since they left the Windmill; her humiliation by Hamish is absolute, and she isn't going to allow herself to sag on Tarrant. God knows what he thinks of her.

_Mighty_ Hightopp Penis, _indeed_.

She's going to kill Hamish.

"It's electric!" Hamish shouts, as he and Knickerbocker slide to the right. Alice has a brief and fierce inner battle that goes something along the lines of; _adults don't push people into rivers, I really want to push him in the river – bugger it all, we never act like adults anyway, but – what'll Tarrant think of me if I do that? Don't look at him. Do __**not**__ look at the Hatter. Shit! I looked at him! If I push Hamish in the river we'll be too busy fishing him out to have an awkward conversation! Quick, push Hamish in the river!_

Alice manages to get her palms flat on the grass, moments away from pushing herself to her feet, rushing forward, and knocking Hamish into the Snodmod, when Tarrant sits down beside her. Plops, rather, with a shy smile, a rather…pleased twinkle in his bright eyes, and two steaming cup of tea.

"Tis brillig, after all," he explains as he hands her a cup. "Sugar?"

Alice bites on her tongue to keep from wailing something utterly foolish – like, say, _can we just forget the fact I used to write dirty stories about you_? (Which would completely take out of consideration that she'd gotten smashed four or so months previous with Hamish and Sarah who lived in the flat below them, and written some steamy bit of fluff that involved kilts and claymores and possibly sex on battlegrounds, but there was no _proof_, not at _all_) – and accepted the tea. She nods and he tosses a sugar cube into the cup, eyebrows lifting.

"Another?" He asks all sweet lisp and beaming smile. Alice nods again, and once the second has taken flight and landed with a soft splash, he produces a small container of milk. She isn't sure why he's carrying milk in his pockets, and wonders if it's safe to drink, but allows him to tip a small amount in.

"I'm telling you," Hamish is saying loudly at the riverbank (and gaining the attention of all the Pawns, two Knights, and possibly the Bishop), "Women love men who dance! Alice is a girl – oi, Alice? You like dancing, don't you?"

"S'long as you're not stepping on my toes," She snaps, and gives him an Evil Look. She isn't sure if she manages to look menacing, or only constipated.

"Listen, Alice goes on and on about that Hatter, and how he can Futterwacken," Hamish continues, waving his hands. Alice begins to pray for the ground open and swallow her. "Though that sounds a bit dirty to me, does it to you? _Futterwacken_? Dance of unbridled joy? Bit perverted, really. Strange sexual practice, I think, really. Dancing is only a cover."

"All in the hips," Knickerbocker says knowingly, "Outlandish mating ritual, I think."

"And that head thing?"

"Well, I suppose women do like that sort of flexibility." Hamish strikes a terribly awkward, twisted up pose.

"A cross between a Futterwacken and Voguing," he explains, "What do you think? Will it draw in the girls?"

"Looks a bit uncomfortable," Knickerbocker wavers, "I dunno, mate…" Hamish grabs his left leg, bounces in place, and attempts to lift it over his head. He fails miseribly.

"Move your _hips_," Knickerbocker stresses, before rearing back on two legs, and wiggling as he best he can. "Like _this_!"

"This?" Hamish questions, and Alice thinks she might have to stab her eyes out when he starts doing pelvic thrusts.

"Yeah!" Knickerbocker nickers happily, "Like that – bit more _swivel_, though, ya know? Like – there we go! Look at that!"

"_Ah_," Tarrant says, teacup half way to his mouth, eyes wide. "That's…"

"If there is a just and kind God," Alice mutters moments after her hand connects with her forehead, "Lightning will strike him dead _now_."

"He's very…enthusiastic…" Tarrant trails off, before gives a great snort of laughter and begins to bite his knuckles. "Is he – _what_ is he _doing_?"

"It's called the Chicken Dance," Alice answers faintly, "Normally it's only done at children's parties or weddings. Only at weddings where there are vast amounts of alcohol, of course."

"I don't wanna be a chicken; I don't wanna be duck, so I shake my butt!" Said bum begins to gyrate. Alice whimpers.

Tarrant has set his teacup aside, has his face in both hands, and is giggling _hysterically_.

"There's this pub, right?" Knickerbocker says enthusiastically when Hamish leaves the Chicken Dance and lapses into the Macarena. "We'll go up sometime, they've always got fresh hay, and I hear the two-leggers like their whiskey. We'll be _swarmed_ with women. _Swarmed_."

"S'gonna be great," Hamish cheers, "We'll be the Pimps of Underland!"

"I'm not sure what a pimp is, but it sounds rather flattering."

"Right, a pimp is a man who -"

"Hamish!" Alice finds a stick on the ground, and hurls it at Hamish's head. Instead it hits Knickerbocker in the flank, and he snorts at her, obviously offended. "No! Stop that!"

"I was just explaining what a -"

"No!"

"But -"

"Nein!" They pause, and stare at each other for a moment. Hamish gives a great snort of laughter.

"I'm sorry – but did you just say _nein_?" Alice scrunches her face up, attempting to keep her giggles inside – she breaks after only a few seconds. "You did! You said nein! Have you been watching World War II documentaries on the telly again?"

"Oh, shut it!"

"Watch her," Hamish yells cheerfully at Tarrant, waving his hands, "She'll end up tying you to a bed, forcing you to lick her boot, and you'll have to call her Fräulein Alice!"

Alice is not unaware that this is a type of…male posturing, or hazing. Not the beginning, no; at that time Hamish had been innocently attempting to show Knickerbocker that they were birds of feather, after a sort. But that last bit? Starting with the Futterwacken on, he was attempting to antagonize the Hatter in such a way that it _seemed_ like joking.

Men were such _boys_.

"Ya ken," Tarrant answers (Alice is torn between gibbering in hysterical lust at the sudden appearance of his brogue, or retrieving his claymore from where it is strapped to Fred, and offering it to him if he'll only promise to cut out Hamish's tongue), "I ten' ta do the tyin' up in _those_ sor's of matters."

And then he gives Hamish a big, sharp, _wicked_ smile – the sort one man gives another, or a shark shows prey – before he tips his head a bit to the side, and winks at Alice. She chokes – loudly – and gapes at him. Her blush is so violent she can actually _feel_ it on her cheeks, flooding down her neck; she has no thoughts. Every thought that does not involve his previous comment has been driven from her head.

Actually, that is a lie – she has _one_ thought. She is _positive_ that comment will be making staring roles in her fantasies for the _rest _of her _life_.

"I think the Hatter broke Lady Alice," Knickerbocker doesn't sound worried, but highly amused. "Look, Freckles, I think she's dribbling on herself."

Alice squeaks, swipes at her chin, and turns her gaze _firmly_ to the sky.

"Nice day," she says in a blind rush, "Er – not raining. Not raining is good. 'Cause we're traveling. I'd hate to get rained on."

"Look, he's blushing," Hamish says a _bit_ nastily, before he's all smiles and laughter once again. "I don't have to worry about becoming an uncle anytime soon, do I, Knickers? They can't stop blushing long enough to get the job done!"

"Be fair, Freckles," Knickerbocker says on a braying laugh, "It's only been a few hours! Might end up an uncle this time next year!"

"Perish the thought!"

"Can we _not_ discuss my theoretical children?" Alice yells loudly, hopping to her feet and stomping to Fred, who is snorting into a bush, and pretending he is only choking on a leaf. She pulls herself on his back, hands trembling. "We're leaving! Come on!"

"Mark my words," she hears Mally muttering to Thackery in the wagon (where they have been blissfully, but uncharacteristically silent), "Freckles is right on that one."

"Bairns!" Thackery bellows happily, and a pat of butter goes flying. Alice thinks that perhaps Thackery and Tarrant both have a bit of problem with hiding food stuffs on their person, and it should be addressed before it becomes a health issue.

She looked down to the top of Tarrant's Hat, watching as he unbuckled his claymore from Fred's saddle before strapping it across his back once more. He swung up after her, and Alice begins to have a very firm discussion with her hysterical, unbelieving hormones when his large hand curled around her hip. It was a hand on her _hip_, nothing obscene, and her reaction was _idiotic_ –

"_We're leaving_!" She shouts when no one moves. The Guard hit their feet and race to their positions, while Knickerbocker and Hamish roar with laughter.

"Leave them," she tells the Bishop sternly, "They'll catch up."

"Yes, Lady Champion."

"We're coming, Fräulein!" Hamish bellows, no doubt pulling faces behind Alice's back.

"_Log_!" Knickerbocker sounds like an excited child knowing he was going to be in terrible trouble for what he is about to do, but _truly_ of the opinion that the joke is worth it.

"Knickers – I'm not – _I'm not all the way on, I –_ _ruuugh_!"

"That was _awesome_!" Knickerbocker shrieks, and Alice puts a hand on Tarrant's forearm, twisting to peer around them. Hamish is dangling, one foot in the stirrup, clutching the pommel of his saddle and hanging off Knickerbocker's left side. He is tousled, wide-eyed, and Knickerbocker is positively braying (more like a donkey then a horse, really) in laughter.

There is a long pause. And then,

"Do it again!" Alice snorts at Hamish's words, turning back around.

* * *

Fires burn on two sides of the training field, a few scorched but mostly unharmed members of the White Army are setting up a medical tent and carting their fallen comrades off, and a large cherry tree has been split in half. Mirana stares at the destruction around her with a sense of horror that verges on angry, before she turns and sweeps – graceful and rather foreboding – to the woman who is the cause of the chaos at Marmoreal.

She has fair hair – a red gold that is beautiful – thick and in tight curls that form a corona of bright color around the pretty but grim face. She has swords on her hips, small hilts sticking out of her boots, and like Prince Riley, scars litter the expanses of flesh that are not covered by her clothing. She is pulling a garrote made of what appears to be catgut through her fingers in what seems to be a mindless, nervous gesture, and is glaring daggers at the White Army.

She does not seem to notice Mirana moving towards her, and it only inflames the White Queen further.

"Princess Ophelia of Nowhere, I presume?"

"Yeah, what –" Ophelia pauses, turning large golden eyes on the White Queen, before she plasters an obviously forced smile to her mouth and gives a bow. It is not low, she does not drop Mirana's gaze, and Mirana has been a royal for _too long_ to not be entirely insulted by a Princess that she _obviously_ outranks disregarding royal conduct. "Ah, White Queen. Yes, I'm Ophelia."

"We were not…_expecting_ you so soon."

"Took a week to prepare in Nowhere," Ophelia answers with an obvious air of distraction, "But Time lost to me in poker a few months ago, and owed me a favor. I came as soon as I could."

"You made quite the entrance," Mirana smiles, and it is not entirely pleasant, "My Army is in shambles. Prince Riley had informed me that you would be helping to give my Army further training, not that you would completely render them helpless."

"_I_ didn't render them helpless," Ophelia cheeks turns red while she gestures wildly to a groaning Rook that refuses to turn its eyeless face towards her, and is limping as fast as it can past the royals. "_That_ is a sad lack of training, Majesty. I might be a godling, but they _should_ have been able to immobilize me. Listen, I was Aboveland not to long ago, and the Royal Navy kicked my _ass_ in a training mission. And they're all mortals! Mind I didn't use any godling Magic, but _still_…"

"And is _this_ your idea of training, Princess Ophelia?"

"No," she answers bluntly, "It's my idea of finding out how much work I have to do with them."

"It is rather strange, don't you think?" Mirana laughs and it has the edge of a knife, "The Hell Ones insisting there is a War coming, and yet there has been no indication inside Underland itself that such a thing will happen?"

"The Unnamed Ones are sneaky," Ophelia bites off, "Up till now they've been keeping a low profile, they don't want -"

"Up till _now_? The only thing that has occurred, Princess, is that you have destroyed my Army!"

"On the border of Witzend, three and a quarter isles you'll find the remains of an Outlandish Clan. Featherfeet, I believe. They were slaughtered. It is the work of the Unnamed Ones."

Mirana and Ophelia stare at each other for a very long, very tense moment.

"You _will_ forgive me, Princess," Mirana says breezily, waving one hand through the air, "But after your recent display, what is to make believe that _you _didn't slaughter the Featherfeet? If they are actually dead, of course."

"Listen, lady," Mirana's eyes go wide, her mouth drops, and her eyes nearly cross as she tracks Ophelia's finger as it jabs towards her nose, "I am a child of the Hell Ones; I am a Warrior, and I have trained under Teutates himself, alright? I _defend_ people - I don't mindlessly attack them. And if you have a problem with my family sticking our necks out to help _you_? Then I sure as hell can leave. But you better be damn well aware of the fact that if _I_ go, not a single one of us will come when you need us most."

"You might be a Princess of Nowhere," Mirana's voice is _cold_ and hard as she speaks, "But _I_ am the Queen of Underland, and I will not have you -"

"Majesties," Mirana jerks her head to glare at Chessur as he appears, spreading his paws between the two of them. "I believe there is far too much royal ego in one space at the moment."

"Chessur, this is a matter of state, matters that do not -"

"_Ogma_?" Ophelia squeaks, her eyes wide. She stares at Chessur as though she is seeing a ghost, before she gives a crow of delight, and begins to point rapidly at the Army. "Ogma, oh – I'm so glad you're here – tell her! Tell her I'm right!"

"Unlike your mother, when I state my dislike for politics, I am _not_ being witty."

"The White Army is crap," Ophelia almost wheedles, "You know that! Anyone with training can see it!"

"The White Army has grown lax in times of peace," Chessur agrees, his smile unfading, though he shakes his head and clicks his tongue. "Civilians always seem to forget that there is always peace in between Wars."

"That is not _lax_. That is stupidity. Have you seen them trying to do a Phalanx?"

"It _is_ rather pathetic."

"S'all good, though," Ophelia puffs up happily, "Between us, we can set them straight, can't we?"

"I'm afraid this will be up to _you_, godling. I won't take part in it."

Mirana watches – unsure of what _exactly_ is going on, mouth slightly agape – as Ophelia visibly wilts.

"What?" Chessur rolls on to his back, curling his front legs behind his head. "_Why_? But you're the -"

"What I was a very long, nearly forgotten time ago is of no importance. I certainly won't hold you to a marriage proposal you proffered when you were barely weaned from your mother, now will I? You see, now, Princess; things change, and the past is not binding to the future."

Ophelia blanches almost violently, scuffs her toe into the grass, and directs her gaze to her feet.

"You…remember that, then?"

"She was a charming child," Chessur winks at Mirana, "Precocious, some might say."

"You asked _our_ Chessur to marry you?" Mirana isn't the sort to stay angry for very long, and the thought of a little Princess asking for Chessur's paw in marriage is…well, it's _hysterical_.

"He was taller back then," Ophelia mutters defensively, "Less furry. Had opposable thumbs."

"Poor dear must be remembering someone else she proposed to. Now you're breaking my heart, Princess. How many of us were there?"

"What? No, it was you, I -"

"No, no. It _must_ have been someone else." Chessur smile takes on a warning tone, and Ophelia gulps.

"Er, yeah. Sure. Someone else. It was probably Leonidas, I've always a thing for _warriors_." Ophelia and Chessur grin at each other, and it is an entirely unpleasant sight.

"You must forgive me," Mirana takes Ophelia's hand and tucks it into the crook of her arm, because Ophelia is looking rather small and almost childlike (those great big eyes in that pretty little face, those cherubic curls and the pink dart of her tongue…yes, Mirana really does need to see about adopting, this is getting _pathetic_), and leads her towards a side entrance to Marmoreal. "Your…entrance…was quite startling, I'm sure you'll understand."

"I wasn't trying to be rude," Ophelia says, and Mirana is starting to think the girl is rather on the blunt side of things, "But I needed to see the White Army under attack, without having to be fighting a true enemy myself."

"I can see the logic in that," Mirana agrees after a moment, nodding once, "I suppose I will forgive your damages to the training field, my Army, and the death of that poor tree. Though I expect an apology to its family."

"Ah –" Ophelia blinks a few times, before nodding. "Yeah, okay."

"Now, you said that the Featherfeet had been attacked?"

* * *

"Oh, Alice!" The White Queen flies like a cloud caught in a stiff Northern wind down the steps of Marmoreal's main entrance, and though there is a tired look in her dark eyes, she is all smiles when Tarrant doesn't bother to wait for Alice to slide from Fred's back herself. He grips her around the waist once his feet touch the ground and lifts her off, and Alice – tired and hungry and rather overwhelmed by, well, _everything_ that has happened to her – is completely and totally distracted by the way she brushes his body when he brings her down. "My Good Champion, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you!"

Alice has no time to gape and blush at Tarrant like a schoolgirl, because he is doffing his Hat and smiling happily at the White Queen, who pulls Alice into a tight hug and presses a kiss to her cheek. Alice knows that for Mirana, she is the _same_ Alice as before; Alice who defeated the Jabberwocky and put her back on the throne, and Alice _does_ have all those memories. But it's a bit startling to have a Queen treating her like a long-lost sister or some such, and she can only give a startled laugh and loosely hug Mirana in return.

"You must be exhausted," Mirana tuts at her, "Your room is ready for you, and a meal is waiting there."

"I – yes, thank you, Your Majesty."

"Mirana," the Queen says gently, tapping her fingers against Alice's cheek with a fond smile, "We are old friends, you and I. And Tarrant – _you_ look positively beamish!" She moves a bit away from Alice, smiling with obvious pleasure at her Hatter.

"It is a beamish sort of day, Majesty," Tarrant agrees, one hand idly smoothing down his left eyebrow, "Beamish, indeed. It isn't every day Alice comes back, now is it? Though it would make every day quite exciting, though I woul'nae wan' her tae be gone so long, ye ken, gone an' _dead_ an' –"

"Hatta," Mirana says softly, resting a hand on his arm.

"_Fez_," he breathes, before giving a strained smile and refusing to meet Alice's gaze. "I'm fine. Thank you."

"What am I, chopped liver?" Hamish mutters, drawing the White Queen's attention. Her eyebrows lift as she peers at him, and he swings off Knickerbocker, lightly slapping the horse on the neck, to which Knickerbocker begins to chew on Hamish's hair when he moves forward.

"Ah, Majesty – er, Mirana – this is my very dear friend, Lord Hamish Ascot," Alice gestures towards Hamish, who gives her a sharp, amused look at his title. (He is in _line_ for the Lordship, though Alice figures that if Mirana doesn't know he isn't quite a Lord yet, it won't cause any harm by stretching the truth a bit. Though Truth might not like being stretched out, so she must watch her words carefully). "Hamish, the White Queen Mirana."

"Your Majesty," Hamish bows low, and when Mirana presents her slender hand, he kisses the back of it. Alice resists the urge to snort at him.

"Lord Ascot, how delightful! I wasn't aware that Alice was bringing friends with her. You are from Aboveland, I assume?"

"Yes, Majesty."

"You must tell me all about it. I know little of Aboveland, but it does seem quite interesting."

"Of course, Your Majesty." Mirana smiles kindly at him before turning back to Tarrant, and there are shadows in her eyes as she takes a step closer to him.

"Hatta, I know that you must be quite tired from your trip, but I'm afraid I…I do need to speak with you."

"Is something wrong, Your Majesty? Perhaps you need a new hat?"

"I wish it were only my desire for a hat, though I must tell you that I _would_ like a new sun bonnet. No, I fear this is much more grim." Tarrant gives her the look of a man who doesn't expect to hold onto any happiness he finds for very long, and Alice suspects it isn't only her heart that it breaks. "Would you follow me to my study?"

"Of course, Majesty."

"Tarrant -" Alice acts without thinking, her hand gripping the sleeve of his jacket, catching up and holding in place. He meets her gaze, and she searches for the words to say. _Don't leave me_, but she can't say that. _Please be okay_, but she knows from the grim lines beside Mirana's eyes and the dark curve of Tarrant's mouth that he won't be. "I…would you like me to come with you?"

She's overstepping boundaries, and she knows it, because the White Queen issued the invitation to _Tarrant_ and not _Alice_. But she's being hailed as the returning Champion, so maybe that gives her a bit of leeway.

"Alice," he breathes, and looks at her with something like wonder and resignation combined. He puts his hand over Alice's, rubbing his thumb against her wrist and gives her a tired smile. "Do you know I wasn't even sure if you knew my first name?"

"I do," Alice practically whispers, "Obviously, as I've said it. Would you like for me to come with you?"

"I would like it," he bends and hovers next to her, as though he is torn between several actions. Finally he brushes his lips across her cheek, and when he pulls back, he looks positively shocked at his daring. "But I am afraid you need a solid meal and bit of rest, and I have matters to discuss with our Queen. Perhaps…we can take tea together, tomorrow?"

"I'd like that," and Alice means it, though she suspects there might be a frown tugging at her lips, because she doesn't want to wait until Brillig to see him again. But there's nothing to be done for it, and he is giving her a soft smile, and following the Queen into Marmoreal.

"_Bonnets and carrots_!" Thackery howls from the wagon, jerking to his feet, He looks around blearily, apparently startled awake by his own shouting (though how his shouting and _not_ his snoring had woken him, Alice will never understand), before he bounds out of the wagon and flies into Marmoreal.

"_Would you like me to go with you_?" Hamish mocks Alice, fluttering his eyelashes at her before he pulls a face. "Alice-bear, you're about pathetic."

"You do understand I'm going to have to kill you, Hamish. Don't you?"

"Hey, I _brought_ you to Underland!"

"You also humiliated me in front of Tarrant."

"I was _joking_."

"Mighty Hightopp Penis?" Alice hisses, jabbing him sharply in the ribs with her elbow. He opens his mouth to reply, but Mally is thumping Alice on the ankle, and she looks down, her noise of surprise cutting him off.

"Come on, Alice," Mally orders, and Alice lowers her hand to scoop the dormouse up. "I'll show ya to yer room. The White Queen'll send someone to take Freckles to his own later on, I 'spect."

"Don't forget to come see me!" Knickerbocker yells at Hamish.

"Later, bro!"

"Bro? You seriously just called him _bro_?" Alice squeaks as she puts a hand to her forehead, continually baffled by Hamish's attempts at being _cool_.

"Man thing," Hamish says seriously, before following Alice and Mally into Marmoreal.

* * *

"We need to talk," Ophelia's voice is hushed and low as she loosens the shadows from around her, allowing her figure to become visible in the delicately and beautifully appointed corridor outside the rooms the White Queen has provided her with. Her hand snaps out and latches onto Chessur's tail - if she wasn't quick with a bit of muffling magic, his yowl would have drawn all of Marmoreal to them. She twists her magic further, holding him in place; his attempts to evaporate tingle and then burn, but Ophelia is stubborn and has endured much worse, and she resolutely drags him by his tail into her room, as though he is a furry, hissing balloon.

She steps onto her balcony, quickly surveying the training field, which is empty and faintly charred, before she places one foot on the railing and boosts herself up. She stands for a moment, giving Chessur a wide grin before she leaps. They plummet a solid three stories, and Ophelia yanks a clawing Chessur to her chest to shield him from damage as she lands. She falls into crouch, planting her feet firmly as she bends her knees until her bottom is nearly at her heals. She sits like that a spare moment before standing upright, quickly darting from shadow-to-shadow, until she is hiding herself and Chessur amid a group of cherry trees.

"Right," She holds him up by his tail, zaps him mightily when he attempts to claw her, and gives him a stern look. "Either you can agree to sit here and speak with me without evaporating when I let you go, or I can keep you like this."

It takes her a minute to remember to release the bit of pressure around his mouth that distorts and quiets sound.

"-I'll mount your head on my wall, you devious little godling!" Chessur pants heavily, glaring daggers at her. He is grinning most grimly, all teeth and no humor. "Let go of my tail!"

"Are you going to poof?"

"Even if I say I'm not, what's to stop me?"

"The fact I'll hunt you down, find you, and perhaps suggest to my Da you made forward advances towards me? He won't pause to hear your side of the story, he'll just rip you apart."

"You're a brat."

"Daddy's little princess," Ophelia sings, before giving him a shake. "Are you going to talk with me or not?"

"Yes, fine – just release my tail at _once_!" She lets him go, and he straights himself, hurtling onto a branch that is out of her reach. She doesn't have to heart to tell him that out of reach or not, she can still get him down with an excess of force if she wants to. "What is that you're so instant on speaking about, godling?"

"Like you don't know," she narrows her eyes and folds her arms across her chest. "Spill, Ogma."

"My name," Chessur hisses slowly, tongue curling and darting over his teeth warningly, "Is _Chessur_."

"Your name is Chessur," Ophelia agrees darkly, "And Ogma, and Ogmios, and -"

"If you continue this," Chessur warns her quietly, "I will speak to the Council."

"Oh, shit, if you knew how many times the Council has had people complaining about me to them," Ophelia rolls her eyes, propping her hands on her hips, "They don't even listen anymore. They just send Da a note, I get my hand smacked, and life moves on. So do it. I dare you."

They spend a long, long moment glaring at each other.

"I am not longer that creature," Chessur says stiffly, "I will not fight, godling."

"_You_ have dominion over Underland. It was _your_ duty to step in and help defeat the Red Queen. Obviously, Alice of Aboveground took care of that. And now? The Unnamed Ones are here and they are going to attack, and you aren't going to do _anything_? When the Council finds out, it won't be a slap on the wrist and being shunted off into a corner. They are going to tear you to pieces, I don't care _what_ you did for them in the past."

"Underland takes care of itself."

"Underland can't defend itself from the Unnamed Ones!" Ophelia shouts, punching the tree he rests on. It shudders and groans, and she lays a calming hand over the cracked and flaking bark. She draws in a deep breath, and attempts to keep calm. "I'm not just here because of my skills, you have to know that."

"Bribed your Tanta, did you?"

"No," her words are sharp, her eyes haunted, "I look like Mammie. They'll want me for that, and…if they capture me, they know they'll be able to draw out my parents, and all our allies. They want this to be the beginning of the end."

"Yes," Chessur agrees after a moment, "I know."

"I volunteered to come," Ophelia continues softly, "In the hopes my presence here will make them act rashly. It might give us an upper hand in the matter."

"You're putting yourself in grave danger," Chessur says after a time, twisting his head to a positively unnatural angle, "However, I don't see how it applies to me."

"You won't help me train the Army," Ophelia lets out a breath, "After the long years you spent as Champion to the de Danann and the Council, I can't fault you that. I've trained with my Mam, my Da, even my Nih-Tanta. But I'm young…and as much as they want to see me become strong, there is only so much they can teach me. I need someone vicious. I need someone not afraid to truly test my boundaries and harm me, if it comes to it."

"You want me to train you?" Chessur laughs, a rich noise, eyes glimmering brightly. He leaps from the tree branch, hovering high enough in the air so he can meet her solid, unwavering gaze head-on. "Godling, you are quick, and clever, and brave. If I were my old self, I would admire you greatly for those things. And if I were young and in your position, I would ask the same thing."

"That's not an answer," Ophelia says softly.

"Not an answer you want to hear, you mean?"

"If you train me, I'll go before the Council myself and praise you to the sky and back. I'll make them think you're the best Watcher any Universe could ever desire."

"I am quite good at speaking on behalf of myself, godling."

"A boon," Ophelia says quickly, and the desperation is clear in her eyes. "I'll give you a boon."

There is a long, long lull. Birds call and crickets chirp; bullfrogs sound from the water garden beyond the training field, and Ophelia hears none of it over the pounding of her heart.

"What _sort_ of boon? What are your terms?" Chessur gives her a wide, sharp grin. Ophelia knows she's placing herself in terrible danger by dong this, but it _has_ to be done.

"Anything you want. I'll give you anything you want so long as it does not harm family, in return for your training of me. And I want a proper training – the real deal."

"_Anything_ I desire, so long as it does not harm your family? It's an interesting idea, godling, but what do you think you could offer me?" The air around Chessur swirls violently, whipping warmly around Ophelia before she takes a step back, watching with resigned eyes as he takes a form she doubts he has worn in eons.

Ogma the Champion stands before her. The Smiling God is smirking, teeth bared, green eyes glittering as he leans forward, head tipping to the side.

"A marriage contract?" He laughs; mocking the frivolity of her youth and the question she had once posed him. Ophelia resists the urge to punch him, simply balls her hands into tight fists and meets his gaze as directly as she can. "Heirs from a Princess of Nowhere? I have nothing to be given to offspring, godling."

"You once desired heirs," Ophelia answers, swallowing hard, "And it's not marriage or heirs – not if you don't want that. An open-ended boon, Ogma. Your choice of how I'll repay you. You train me, and I'll give you _anything_ you desire, so long as it _does not_ harm my family."

"Does not harm your family," he repeats, and laughs in her face, "Not _does not harm myself and my family_? Interesting choice of words. What if I want you to kill yourself?"

"I'm a Hell Child," Ophelia says without pause, "I will return to Nowhere. I'll drink from the River, and in time, if I so choose, my mother will bear me once again. Much less traumatizing childhood the second go around, can't say as I'd mind."

"What if _I_ want to harm you, for the insults you've given me?"

"I spent the first three centuries of my life in Sideways with the Unnamed Ones," Ophelia hisses, "If you believe what you could do to me will be any worse then what they've already done, you're sorely mistaken."

"You have a very low opinion of my creativity, godling." They stare at each for several heartbeats, before Ophelia pushes herself on her tiptoes, shoving her face closers to Ogma's.

"I'm not afraid of you," she tells him (and it's true – she's too afraid of the Unnamed Ones to fear anyone or anything else), eyes spitting fire. "Take the boon or leave it."

He reaches up, a calloused hand (Ophelia wonders if he practices in quiet, empty places where no sees him, or if the calluses are so much a part of him that he can't make them go away even when he looses the form for centuries at a time) wrapping around Ophelia's neck. He smiles fleeringly at her, before leaning back, and squeezing her throat in an almost mindless way. Ophelia catches her breath and refuses to jerk out of his testing grip.

"Accepted," he says firmly.

"The terms of your side of the boon?"

"I haven't decided yet," Ogma tightens his grip so suddenly that stars flash in front Ophelia's eyes, and her hands jerk up. She wants to claw his grip away, but instead she slams her thumb into his throat, listening as he catches his breath so roughly the mere _sound_ is actually painful. To his credit, he doesn't loosen his hold – he grips harder. Ophelia slams her hand upwards into his nose, before hooking two fingers in his nostrils, digging her short but sharp nails into the sensitive flesh, and does her best to rip it off his stupid, smiling face.

"_Fucker_," Ophelia spits when he releases her, and attempts to drive her knee into his groin, simply out of spite and to watch him hit the ground cursing and gasping and possibly vomiting on himself. He seems to anticipate her move before she makes it, grabbing her arm and twisting it behind her. He slams her into a tree, the bark scraping her cheek until blood is drawn, and it digs into her stomach and breasts. He pins her there, laughing in her ear, before he pats her hip with his free hand.

"We'll start tomorrow night," he tells her, "Meet me here when Marmoreal sleeps. And do remember, godling, this is a sworn boon with a true God – if you change your mind, I get to _forcibly_ collect my debt."

"I won't change my mind," Ophelia jerks in his grasp, attempts to knock his feet out, attempts to use sheer, brute strength to push off the tree and into his body, knock him backwards and gain freedom. Her struggles are entirely in vain, and he laughs at her. "Since this isn't part of my training, how about you let me go?"

"Think of it as a warm up."

Ophelia calls him every dirty, foul name she can think of. When that's over with, she makes up a few. He's positively roaring in laughter by the time she's done, big arms and thick chest shaking as he drops his chin, resting it on the top of her head as he laughs into her hair. She finally gives up and twists magic that tastes of fire and burns like her Da, pushing at him. He hisses – he even loosens his hold – but he doesn't let her go.

"Are you _quite_ done, godling?"

"Eat shit and die."

"Pride won't help you with me," Ogma tells her in a rather conversational tone of voice, "It will only make things much worse. Though I suspect it will be _quite_ fun."

He disappears suddenly. Ophelia slams her hands against the tree, pushes herself away from it, and counts to five thousand, seven hundred and sixty two. It doesn't help – she's still fuming mad. Eventually she stomps out of the trees and across the training field, in full view of anyone who might be looking, because she really just doesn't give a damn.

If she notices a pair of glowing eyes on top of her wardrobe when she strips and crawls into her borrowed bed, she very firmly ignores them, because pointing them out would be letting him win. And Ophelia of Nowhere doesn't loose to anyone. Not _even_ the Champion Ogma turned Cheshire Cat.

* * *

"Tarrant," Mirana says in a weary tone, her back to the Hatter that is sitting in a chair before her desk, his hands folded in his lap. "There's more."

_More_, Tarrant almost asks her, _more then Unnamed Ones and Gods and godlings?_ He doesn't ask, though, because she wouldn't say it if it wasn't true, and he needs to focus, pay attention, catch every detail. Alice finally, finally returns to Underland…and there is War brimming, a War where the White Queen will no doubt ask for her Champion to stand for her once again, and Tarrant can hardly stand the thought of it. So he stops thinking of it, and focuses his extra energy on the stitching of Mirana's gown.

"Princess Ophelia claims that these Unnamed Ones attacked an Outlandish Clan," Tarrant tenses violently in his chair, and from the pounding in his head he can guess that his eyes are murderous amber, "I haven't sent anyone out, yet. I…wanted you to accompany them, Tarrant. You are Outlandish, and if other Clans, or the rest of _this_ Clan has found the…bodies…then they will be more responsive to our investigations if you are there."

"Which Clan?" He asks thickly. Mirana turns and gives him large, sad eyes. "Which bluddy Clan?"

"Featherfeet," Mirana says quietly, and then, "I'm so sorry, Tarrant."

His mother hadn't always been a Hightopp woman. No, she'd been Featherfeet – and what little family Tarrant has left is with them.

"Who," he asks, elbows on his knees as he leans forward, hands covering his face, "How many?"

"Several," Mirana answers, "But I'm not sure as to who, Tarrant. There is no proof that it is any of your direct kin."

_Direct kin_, Tarrant almost scoffs. Kin is kin, Clan is Clan. He's already lost all the Hightopps, and that is his shame, being the last. But the Featherfeet…? His cousin Moira's due for a bairn, soon, anytime, really. She came to visit him not long ago, big as a barn, and kissed his cheeks and held his hands. He's got baby clothing made, hiding in his satchel, and he'd meant to send it out to her by messenger in the next few days.

But what if…?

"When do ya wan' me tae go?"

"I know it's very much to ask, Tarrant, but tonight would be best." He only nods, rubbing his hands across his face, catching a thimble in his eyebrow.

"Would you at least eat something before you leave?"

"Nae," he shakes head, "I coul'nae…after _this_…?"

"I'm sure," Mirana says very softly as she moves across the space between them, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder, "That Alice would like to see you before you leave."

He nods again, and when he stands he forgets even to bow before he leaves the Queen's study.


	8. Chapter Eight

**A/N: I know it's not quite enough after the wait I put you all through, but I am terribly sorry. I missed you all terribly, and YIP, though I'm forever going to hold a burning hatred for this chapter, after the hell it put me through writing it. As always, more thanks than can be imagined goes to my amazing beta fiducia. Not only does she get to decipher half-finished and then forgotten sentences, she has to listen to me rattle at her constantly. She's a saint, guys, seriously. :D Any errors found are my own.**

**And please don't kill me when you get to the end, because the ninth chapter will be posted shortly. ****As in, not in a few months time. ;)**

**Disclaimer: ****I do not own Alice in Wonderland in any form. I do own all original characters, and my sanity suffers for it daily. **

Alice wakes suddenly, startled out of a deep, dreamless sleep by something she cannot immediately identify. She lays curl on her side, one end of a long, thick pillow tucked between her knees, the other against her chest, her arms wrapped limply around it. She cracks open her eyes and stares across her room, which is covered in both shadows and moon glow, the fall of the light and the shapes it makes is nothing she is used to. It takes her a few moments but she remembers where she is, in Underland – in Marmoreal, to be exact, curled up in an amazingly comfortable bed in what she was told is the Champion's Apartment. Hamish is passed out in a smaller room that holds a daybed curtained in silk that is embroidered with Vorpal swords and tea cups.

He looked ridiculous when Alice checked on him bare minutes before she collapsed into her own bed, brushing her long hair, squeezing droplets of water from the ends every now and then. The bed was nearly too small for him, far too feminine, and he was absurd looking in his Stewie Griffin pants. Alice had wished, briefly, for a camera to capture the moment, but accepted she was simply out of luck on that front before going to her bed, collapsing onto the mattress and promptly passing out. Exhaustion is a brutal creature, and certainly for one such as Alice, who has traveled to what she thought was a make-believe land, snogged her (supposedly) fictional first love, and then traveled several miles on horse back. Her thighs still ache from that trip, because the responsibilities of an adult do not often allow Alice time for polo or pleasure riding.

She thinks she will have a lot of time to ride Frank over every inch of Underland in her new life.

She closes her eyes, planning on very easily slipping back into her sleep – because she is hovering just on the edge of it, barely awake at all – when she feels a mingling of both flesh and cool metal run over her cheek, catching several tendrils of her thick hair and tucking it behind her ear. She bolts upright, her breath catching harshly – loudly – in the silent room, her feet pushing against the soft sheets as she drags herself up the mattress and towards the headboard, her heart beating violently in her chest. She thinks she may faint or cry or scream, at least until she hears a well-known voice uttering what is no doubt a dirty curse in Outlandish, and realizes that one of the tall shadows is a man in a Hat.

More to the point, it is the Hatter, wearing his fine Hat, sitting on her bed. In the middle of the night. And she has probably just given him heart failure – she cringes, slapping a hand to her chest as she collapses against the headboard, closing her eyes. If it were a movie or a particularly sappy novel, she would have woken gently, all fluttering eyelashes, and known who it was immediately. At the very least, she wouldn't have nearly jumped out of her skin. She works to calm her breathing and her heart rate, the hand not on her chest lifting to shove hair out of her face.

"I'm sorry," Tarrant lisps very softly, sounding both abashed and ashamed. Alice opens her eyes, watching the silvery light illuminate the bottom portion of his face as he tucks his head down, Hat brim insuring that his eyes are only a bright, apologetic glint in the darkness it provides. "I didn't mean to scare you, Alice."

"S'fine," Alice promises him on a quivering breath, flapping one hand at him, "Really. Just wasn't expecting anyone to be – you know – in here with me."

"I'm sorry," Tarrant repeats, large eyes glittering from the shadows that obscure everything but the strong jut of his chin and the deep mauve bruise of his lips. They look almost purple in the dim light, and Alice – hazy minded anyway, due to just being woken up, and so suddenly to boot – is hardly able to look away. She's fairly certain she has had a dream (or several) that start quite like this in her lifetime. Like that one, that tends to end in dribbling honey and -

_Well, then_, probably not the best train of thought to keep on at the moment.

Alice swallows hard, and forces herself to actually listen to what her – _the_ – just _the_ Hatter, thank you – what the Hatter is telling her.

"Thought I would say goodbye," he has several ribbons and a bit of fine, dotted netting in his hands (Alice has no idea how they came to be there – she reminds herself to start paying attention to what is in front of her, and not what is jumbling about in her mind). He is pinning the ribbons to the netting, and then plucking a threaded needled from the cuff of one jacket sleeve, hands taking up quick, nervous stitches. "I wasn't – I wasn't trying to wake you up, as I said, I only thought I ought to say goodbye. To you, I mean."

"Wait," Alice throws both hands in the air as she sits upright, leaving her reclining position against the headboard, hair puffing wildly around her face and shoulders as she narrows her eyes, "Goodbye? Where are you going?"

"I..." Tarrant chokes on whatever he isn't saying, stitching faster while he darts her an unreadable look from his shadows. "The Queen," he finally says, "Has asked me to perform a task on her behalf."

"But why do you have to _leave_?" Alice takes absolutely no notice of what the Hatter has created, only watches as he tosses it to the table beside her bed, his hands folding together before he draws in a deep breath.

"The Queen," he says again, "Needs me to go."

"For how long?" Alice demands, brow furrowing, tired mind whirling. She has only _just_ gotten him back, is looking forward to truly learning all about him, becoming his friend and – and maybe more – and he is being sent _away_?

"I should be home before brillig," Tarrant sounds pleased, his crooked smile wide, making Alice's heart skip a beat or two. "In time for tea, Alice."

"Oh," Alice feels very stupid, very quickly, her blush so violent that it feels as though it is _actually_ burning her. She looks down at her knees – bare – and curls the fingers of both hands around the hem of her t-shirt, tugging it towards said bare knees in short, repetitive motions. "Well, that's good, then."

"'Tis, at that," Tarrant assures her, lisp forgotten as his stronger, natural accent begins to slowly take over. It makes Alice's stomach tie up in a knot as the burr begins to weave around the edges of his words, not entirely formed, but hinted at. It makes her wonder at what is actually hiding behind his nervous giggles and happy, lisping cries of her name – it makes her question the memories she has of the brash madman with blazing eyes and bared claymore. If Tarrant hides all of _that_ behind his lisp and courtly Royal Hatter persona, what in the world has Alice yet to discover?

The possibilities – at least the ones she is imagining – make her toes curl under the blanket that is far down on her shins, and her cheeks start burning again.

She really can't be blamed for having dirty thoughts about the man, she decides firmly, given that it _is_ the middle of the night, he _is_ in her room, and they _are_ on her bed. Put all that together, and any woman with a pulse and a Hatter would be diving to the depths she very quickly is.

"It's not dangerous, is it?" Alice is joking when she asks that question, floundering for something to say that is not, '_So, how about a snog for the road, eh?'_ because that's what she _wants_ to ask. She is startled when, beneath his Hat brim and shadows, Tarrant's eyes flame brightly, narrow, and he bears his teeth. His hands fist on top of his thighs; he doesn't say anything, not a single damn thing, and it makes a violent knot of worry twist up in her stomach. They sit there, looking at each other, and Alice is shocked to feel her hands beginning to shake, the side-affects of her mental and physical exhaustion, her suddenly interrupted sleep, and fear.

Alice has dreams of memories that tell her how cruel and dark Underland can be. A moat full of bobbing, decaying heads, mouths open, sightless eyes filmy – at least, those that had yet to be plucked out by the birds. Tongues swollen, choking useless throats, protruding violent – except for those whose tongues had been cut out first, to stem their cries of _downal wyth bluddy begh hid_ until it was off with their heads, only a few short days afterward. She remembers a burnt out clearing, imagines the screams of Tarrant's Clan as they died; and then she remembers the dungeons of Salazen Grum.

Still Tarrant says nothing. Alice might have liked some very pretty lies, all lisped so finely that she would do her best to believe them even though she knew they weren't true. On the same hand, however, she would resent him for those lies, because trust was something she sorely needed at this time, when her world is upside, falling out from under her. She has stepped through a Looking Glass and has little idea of what it is _truly_ going to come to mean to her, or the choices she only admits to herself she is going to be forced to make, at some point.

"Oh," Alice finally breathes so softly, almost sadly, and at that Tarrant actually, physically winces. "Why – why are you going, then? Why not some of the guards? Knights, bishops, whatever."

"S'my duty," his burr thickens a bit more, and he leans forward, reaching out with fingers that are not afraid, no, but wary – he is as unsure and startled as Alice, she realizes, and she leans into his touch, until he's cupping the side of her face. She leans until he does the same, only forward, and his hat brim is knocked out of the way, until their foreheads are pressed together. Alice is aware of a great many things at that moment; the warmth of his skin, the tea-scent of his breath, the tremor of her hands and the worry that something awful might happen to him.

It is apparent to Alice that there is _something_ between them. At this time it is nameless, because it is in some ways new, in others very old; it is fragile, delicate, and it needs to be tended like a young plant. It could very easily be torn or damaged, a leaf ripped from the stem by an unaware passerby, though she imagines that if it is it nurtured, cared for and tended to, it will become a mighty tree tall enough to poke holes in the clouds, able to offer protection under it's branches, a home in it's roots.

Alice thinks that those choices she doesn't want to think about having to make – what she is going to give up, her family or the world she has always dreamed of - are going to be easier to make because of this man.

"I don't care when you come back," Alice says very suddenly, strongly, and Tarrant jerks back, eyes wide, startled and hurt. Alice feels like kicking herself, and waves her hands in the air between them. "No, I mean – I don't care when you come back, as long as you come back safe. Alright?"

Tarrant stares at her for a long moment, before he tips his chin, and his eyes are a glimmering emerald flecked with gold. He smiles at her, tongue prodding the dark gap between his teeth before he speaks. "Aye," he agrees, sliding his hand from her cheek to the back of her neck, "Alrigh', Alice."

And then he kisses her. It is a very soft kiss, a bare press of lips, barely parted and gentle. Alice's breath bubbles in her throat, her head growing quite light as she angles herself more towards Tarrant, her stomach quivering. He takes a long time kissing her, until Alice is raw and breathless, fingers curled in front of his jacket. She tugs at the fabric, whines in the back of her throat and nips at his lower lip, slipping forwards until she is practically in his lap. He gives a great, gasping sort of groan before he tips his head down, kisses her cheek and jaw before pressing his face into her neck. He takes a few long minutes to hold her, arms wrapping tight and strong around Alice's waist and back.

"Promise me you'll come back safe," Alice whispers into his hair, her eyes shut against the shadows and moonlight, every lung full of air she takes in filling her up with the unique scent of the last Hightopp. "Please promise me. I've only just come back, I don't want – there wouldn't be any point in staying here if you – if -"

"I promise," Tarrant cuts her off, pulling her fully into his lap. His fine Hat falls to the mattress, as tumbled and disheveled as its maker and owner, when Tarrant presses his forehead against Alice's shoulder. His voice has strength in it, some magic that is of Underland and Tarrant himself, and Alice feels it pull tight around the both of them. "I'll come back to you, Alice."

They hold each other for a time, and Alice has to fight the words she wants to say, but knows she cannot. _Please stay, don't go, don't leave me when I've just come back and found you again_ – she thinks he would stay, if she asked. She imagines that for her, he would defy the Queen he fought so hard to see put back on the throne of Underland. Alice also feels, down to her very bones, that it would be a betrayal of the worst kind if she used his obvious attachment to her – or who she had once been, Alice is not sure if she is the same or not – and she swallows them back, pushes them into her throat and chest.

She does not try to stop Tarrant when he shifts from his lap, arms and hands gentle as he lowers her back to the mattress, busies himself with folding the blanket and sheet back over her legs and waist, up to her chest and under her arms, tucking her in. His hand hovers over the fabric, not quite daring enough to smooth the wrinkles where it lies across her chest. Instead he gives her a smile, but it is too dark for Alice to read the color of his eyes and get at least an idea of his mood.

Tarrant takes up his Hat, setting it back into place before he smooths his coat and stands. His eyes are pained at the separation, but his steps are determined as he moves towards the half open door.

"Fairfarren," Alice calls quietly from the bed. He turns to look at her, once again all shadows and angles under the brim of his Hat.

"Fairfarren," he answers her, pausing a moment, as though he is going to say something – he shakes his head, hard, and leaves quickly. Alice listens to his footsteps, the opening of the door to her apartment of rooms and then the soft _snap_ of it closing. She isn't quite sure why, but she puts her head on her knees and cries when he is gone.

* * *

Ophelia awakes from a sleep she has been indulging in for two hours, at best. There is only a short time before the twilight of dawn hours begins to lighten the world, and for a moment she simply lays still, one arm thrown above her head, blanket in her hand. She is covered from the top of her curls to her toes, and she doesn't want to move, to fully wake up. She wants to sleep another half hour or so before she has to go to the training field and meet with the Bishops. She doesn't even really want to do that, because Ophelia isn't a very good teacher. She's rather got a sink-or-swim sort of approach to things, and she doesn't think that tossing the White Army at the Unnamed Ones with a stern parting of, "Live or die, it's all on you," is really going to do them any good.

_I promised, I promised – I promised Alice_ -

"The _fuck_ -" Ophelia snaps upright, blanket falling around her waist, eyes darting around her room. Her temples begin to throb and a chill races down her spine. Goosebumps break out over her, and Ophelia can taste the ancient, powerful magic of Underland it's self as it begins to prod at her with all the subtlety of a caveman with a club.

I promised Alice I'd come back safe, I promised Alice, I promise – I promised -

Ophelia digs her palms into her eyes, rocking forward as she is assaulted with the half desperate cries of a man she can see as plain as day, kilt whipping around his thighs as he stands in the stirrups of a great, lathering stallion. They are racing through a forested area in the darkness, and there are shadows in the trees, stalking them, picking off the White Guards that accompany the man in the Hat. The magic that had awoken her, is now attacking her, is like a knife in the gut, harsh and insistent.

"You see," she practically snarls as she rips back the covers and slips from the large bed she has been provided, stumbling towards the pile of clothing the floor, "_This_ is what happens when you don't fight anymore! I'm not even a part of this world, really, and it's already bossing me around!"

"What _are_ you talking about?" Chessur asks from atop the wardrobe, two glowing eyes opening in an unhappy, tired squint. "I was dreaming of dormice, whatever could be important enough to wake me up from that?"

"Orange haired bloke in a hat and a kilt," Ophelia plucks a spare dirk from the top of the vanity as she is hopping into her breaches, tossing it at the Mostly Evaporated Cat. Chessur's eyes disappear, and the dirk slams into the wall blade first, vibrating dully. "He's about to be killed off by some minions of the Unnamed Ones, and Underland is quite insistent that he doesn't die. Made some promises to an Alice, and Underland wants them kept. This _should_ be going straight to you," Ophelia pauses as she tugs her tunic on, continuing as she wrestles into her leather vest. "But since you won't fight, you great coward -"

"Godling," Chessur says in what Ophelia is starting to think is his Ogma voice, all threat and darkness, "What _are_ you talking about?"

"I don't know," Ophelia grumbles, at this point hopping on one foot as she attempts to get herself into her high boots, "All I know is that it's going to be a fight."

"What is going to be a fight?"

"Don't you listen? Minions, guy in a hat, very bright hair – nice legs – ha!" Ophelia gives a cry of triumph as she gets her left foot shod, the laces tightening and tying themselves. She begins to jam her right foot into the remaining boot, once again hopping about. "The White Army is useless, and you're too blasted busy clawing up furniture to help -"

"_Godling..._" Chessur purrs warningly from somewhere behind her. Ophelia ignores him.

"Questions later," Ophelia straps on her weapons as her second boot laces tightly and double knots it's self. "I gotta go."

It is the first time the Cat is given a taste of his own Disappearing Without Warning medicine in many years, and he isn't entirely sure he approves of it.

* * *

Tarrant promised Alice that he would return in time to take tea with her at brillig. He _promised_, and his words, the memory of her sleeping under his gaze, and then her kiss and the scent of her hair, rockets through Tarrant's poor mind with the force of a mome rath on a warpath. He promised Alice and so he must return, despite the fact that he set out for the land just over the boarder of Witzend with sixteen White Guards, and there are only four left. They are being picked off, one by one, there one moment and gone the next, their gurgling, tortured screams echoing through the Bigh Shidewe Wood. Tarrant can almost feel their deaths, knows that those brave chessmen are gone, and a part of him fears if he ever returns to this place (if he lives long enough to return) that he will be stalked by their ghosts from the shadows of the thick trees.

"Roon," he burrs fiercely into the ear of his mount, an Outlandish war horse by the name of Corann, digging his heals into the flanks of the stallion. The war horse gives an angry, shrill cry, head lowering and neck straining as he puts on another burst of speed. Tarrant stands in his sturdy stirrups, leaning over Corann's neck, the saddlebags that had once been attached to his thin saddle – Outlandish in design, what Tarrant had grown up using – already an isle behind them, tossed off to remove weight. "Fas'er, coom on!"

"_Ah – am -_" Corann huffs out, darting hard to the left to avoid a large rock that they nearly slammed into. "Cannae see, s'tae bluddy dark!"

Behind them a Knight screams mightily, and there is the terrible, Nightmarish sound of bones snapping. Tarrant leans even farther, face nearly in his mounts mane as he gasps for air.

"I proomised," he breathes fiercely, "I _proomised_!"

Tarrant can only imagine what is chasing the squad of men that escort him, and even then he only has a name: Unnamed Ones. It is all the information he has, and that is more then enough.

"We nee'tae loose 'em!" Corann gets out, working hard as he darts into a well-know – to those who have traveled the area well, at least - side path through Bigh Shidewe, one that will loop around and lead them back towards Marmoreal – if they can actually escape Bigh Shidewe that is. Tarrant wishes he could turn around, fight off those who are attacking, save the White Guards that rode with him. He knows his only hope, however, is to run; once again, he'll be the only survivor, and the thought turns his stomach, even as it makes his blood heat in a mad rage.

Shadows begin to dart through the trees along side the path. Tarrant knows they've been caught, and reaches behind to where his calymore is strapped to his back, freeing his claymore. He holds it near to his chest, waiting until a shadow comes close enough to lash out and draw first blood.

He never gets the chance. There is a tremendous _bang_ of displaced air, and Bigh Shidewe is illuminated with a positively blinding crack of light, golden and white, spearing outwards. Screams escape the woods, hisses and howls as the shadows fall backwards, blinded and hurt. Tarrant curses vividly, tucking his head down, hiding his eyes against his forearm, squeezing Corann tightly with his legs as the stallion rears back several steps, front hooves pawing the air.

An arrow, loosened from a violent roll of shadows at the edge of the path to Tarrant's right, shoots under Corann's lifted legs, where Tarrant would have been if his mount hadn't reared.

"_Wot teh bluddy -_" Corann roars, falling back on four legs. Tarrant strong arms the horse to keep him from spinning around, eyes landing on the figure that has very suddenly appeared in the path before him.

It is a woman. Small looking, lean and vicious. Her hair is a bright aureole around a strong, pointed face. She meets his gaze for a split second, and Tarrant thinks he's been gutted when he meets her bright, golden eyes, feels his blood rush and skin prickle as she bares sharp teeth and pulls a set of swords that glow with the same light that had burst through Bigh Shidewe Woods only moments before.

She takes a strong stance, feet braced and planted like tree roots, and Tarrant swings one leg over Corann, dropping from the stallion as he takes his claymore in a two handed grip. _This is it_, he thinks, _I promised, I have to fight, I promised Alice I'd be -_

She doesn't attack. Rather, she doesn't attack _him_.

She spins to Tarrant's right, swords slicing a shrieking path through the air, cutting through shadows that have darted forward and are baring yellow teeth and sharp, dirty talons. Strong arms lift, one blade twirling above her head as the other is drawn nearly behind her back, her right leg lifting as she executes a hard spin. Her blades lash out, cutting through shadow-flesh, sending rotting, foul smelling blood splattering along the fertile earth.

When her right foot hits the ground she drops into a low, strange stance; a muted growl escapes her throat as she leans forward, arms extending before snapping back into her body, and the ground _howls_ before slamming upwards. Tarrant shouts, rocking backwards, hitting his knees as rocks grind and shriek as they rub together, the earth following the pull of the woman's sword dance, forming high, deadly sharp peaks to cover her left flank.

She whirls once again, dancing to Tarrant's left, mimicking the same movements; again the earth responds, grinding impossibly upwards. She lets out a howling noise when that side is finished, golden, glowing eyes nearly popping from her skull as the tendons in her neck flare outwards, and her face becomes mottled and red. Tarrant thinks – for a moment – that it is from the effort, before her swords hit the ground and a swarm of prickling pain slams into him.

_Magic_, he realizes – there is old, old magic at work. And it is attacking the woman – attacking him.

Every nerve in Tarrant's body _wails_. He roars, falling onto his elbows, back bowing, teeth biting through his tongue as his muscles lock and attempt to pull away from bone. He can hear the woman screaming, primal, wordless cries of rage and agony while his feet beat a helpless tattoo against the dirt path.

_I promised_, he thinks, and then _Alice_ – the pain lessens only slightly. Slightly is enough for him to stagger to his shaking legs, taking up his claymore – blade dragging the dirt behind him as he spits blood and hobbles brokenly towards the arching woman. She is on her back, arms curling painful into her chest, one leg bent at an impossible angle as she screams and screams and _screams_ -

She rocks violently onto her legs, straightening her arms so hard that Tarrant can hear joints snapping. Her curled fingers claw desperately at a pouch on her belt, and Tarrant drops his claymore to the ground, attempting to help her wrestle the pouch open with both hands. It doesn't matter that he doesn't know her, it only matters that she has moved the earth and is painfully golden, has fought off clawed-shadows to save him – together they manage to tug the laces from the pouch.

Her fingers cannot grasp the horn that is inside it. But together they press it between their palms and twisted fingers, bring it to her mouth where she is frothing like a winded horse, the white speckled pink and red with blood. It shakes violently as it is pressed to her lips, and Tarrant hears what he suspects is a rib _crack_ – like a falling tree – inside her chest as she fights to inhale -

The horn releases a sound that Tarrant can never hope to describe. It is a low thrum that rocks the very earth she had moved; it is a high, desperate scream for help.

The woods fall impossibly silent. The pain lessens even further, and Tarrant wavers violently, nearly toppling to his side. The woman lets out a loan groan, fighting completely to her feet, somehow managing to shove the horn back into its pouch.

"Swords," she wheezes, jerking her chin towards Tarrant's abandoned claymore, "Swords!"

Tarrant lunges for it. When he stands again it is in his hands, and the woman is holding her own. They move until their backs are close, and the woman kicks out one foot, knocking it into his calf.

"Know...how to use that?" Tarrant smirks at the question, eyes gone wild and Mad.

"'Boot as well as ye used yers," Tarrant answers, before shadows flood down either end of the path.

Tarrant knows nothing for a long, long time. It is only the slash-twirl-dodge-lung-block of fighting; there is no hair to grab, feet to trip, or eyes to properly blind, however, and it makes him fight even _dirtier_. He uses his hands, his teeth, his sword; he fights like the violent Madman he has so often been accused of being, because he survived his Clan – he will survive _this_. Alice is alive, alive and at Marmoreal, and he'll be _damned_ if he'll be torn apart by half-formless shadows in Bigh Shidewe Woods the morning after she arrived home.

After she's come back to _him_, made him _promise_ that he will come back to her -

The thought spurs him on.

A stiff, hot wind rushes forward; it flutters Tarrant blood-splattered, torn kilt around his knees, blows his hair around his face and neck. The shadows _roar_ and fall back, fleeing from the hot gale – Tarrant thinks, for a moment, that the woman is moving the earth again. But no, she is behind him, back pressing against his as she goes half-limp for a moment, a sound somewhere between a sob and battle cry escaping her throat. He twirls around, catching her with one arm, fingers pressing against her left elbow and finding it jutting out – it had been dislocated at some point.

The earth shakes, and Tarrant learns why as figures flood up the Bigh Shidewe Wood path. Mounted peoples, hounds of impossible sizes, warriors on foot, weapons drawn. The woman points down the path, shuffling backwards and taking Tarrant with her, until they are both pressed against the barrier she had created along the edge of the little road.

"Hurry," she shouts hoarsely, "Go after them, they're near by!"

"_Ophelia_!" A young man vaults off a massive mount that Tarrant, upon eying the ebony creature, begins to think is an actual Night Mare. He races forward, grabbing the blood splattered woman – Ophelia – _Princess_ Ophelia of Nowhere, Tarrant guesses. He holds her up, face as pale as the reflection Tarrant receives when he looks into a Glass. "Did you see him? Did you – _did he_ -"

"I'm fine," the princess assures the golden young man who is so stricken at the sight of her injuries, though her lips turning blue and there is a swelling lump on her neck that doesn't allow for movement. "It's alright, Riley."

"We've got to get you home," he picks her up, cradling her against his chest, and Tarrant notes – rather dully, because he is quite shocked and nothing is processing properly (which is probably a good thing, as he thinks he might go Mad for a dreadfully long time if he thinks on the events of the past hour) – that the curly haired youth can only be the Prince Riley his own White Queen had spoken to him about has violently trembling hands and glimmering eyes. "You're such an _idiot_, Ophie, why did you come out here?"

Tarrant does not hear the rest of the conversation. Instead his ears are filled with a violent, throbbing noise, and his sight falls out of focus. He staggers to the side, attempting to catch himself on the earthen wall behind him. Instead he slips down it, pains seizing his chest as an awful, metallic taste floods his mouth. It speaks to his past that experience has taught Tarrant the taste is his own blood, and there is something terribly, horribly wrong with him.

_But I promised_ – he thinks rather desperately, before he slips into a silent blackness.


	9. Chapter Nine

**A/N: Two chapters for the price of one! Merry Christmas, fandom. :) (Attack monkeys are not needed to make me post, see? Not one! Unless it's a gift of a attack monkey, and not a monkey chewing my face off...) And ets hear the praise for fiducia, who is just straight up amazing! Chapter ten will be along in a week or so, I suspect. :)**

**And if I don't see y'all before then, happy holidays!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland in any form. I do own all original characters, and my sanity suffers for it daily.**

Alice is in the hallway outside of her Apartment at what a freshly buttered clock claims is half past eight in the morning, stomach growling, feeling awkward in a pair of blue jeans and a Tom Petty t-shirt, and Hamish by her side like an overgrown spaniel. They are peering up and down the pretty hall, windows between the doors leading in and out of the two apartments on either side of the hall allowing sunlight to stream in. Hamish had spent several minutes running in and out of the Champion's Apartment, attempting to find the window on the inside wall – but there was only wall, bookshelves, or paintings to be seen. He went so far as to open a window and hang out of it, right into the morning sunshine and cooler air of morning.

"This place," he pronounced as he pulled himself back inside and latched the window shut, "Is mad, isn't it?" He sounded very pleased about it, and it made Alice warm. Her entire life she had suffered for her poor Hammy, who was so caught under the restrictions and ideals of his mother that he was hardly ever allowed to do anything more interesting then watching a football game or two. Even then he had to remain quiet until she was out of ear shot, or Alice's father was in attendance; Charles could get away with nearly anything. Prudence, despite her sneering claims otherwise, held a soft spot for Charles Kingsleigh. Everyone, Alice is forced to admit, holds a soft spot for her father, though. _Even_ an old stick in the mud like Hamish's mum.

Underland, Alice knows, is going to do absolute wonders for her Hamish. It had given him brightness and creativity when they were children, when he would have otherwise grown up as boring and bland as his mother, and now it will grant him a life of Adventure! Alice is more than pleased that he is at her side, accompanying her into the world that had so haunted her – and by proxy, Hamish as well.

"Right," Hamish asks, both of them peering that way before they turn their heads to stare down the opposite side of the hall, "Or left?"

"I don't know," Alice admits. She ponders it a moment, before slanting a sideways glance at her partner-in-crime. Well, Minor Crime, and they were never actually _charged_ (knock on wood). "If you built a castle, where would you put the kitchen in relation to the Champion's Apartment?"

"Ground level," Hamish answers her after only a brief moment of thought, "In the very back."

"Right or left?"

"Left," Hamish proffers his arm and Alice takes it. Together they sweep down the hall, noses in the air, attempting to look as regal as possible, even though Alice has paint stains on her faded jeans, and Hamish is sporting a shirt that reads _Trust me, I'm a Jedi,_ and a fierce sunburn that looks absolutely painful. He is quite used to burning, however, and he suffers through it with only winces and an absolute refusal to let Alice even breathe on his shoulders and the back of his neck, which gained the worse burn Alice has seen on him in years. Out of kindness, Alice has promised to refrain from beating him about the head and shoulders until he starts to peel.

"Jedi?" Alice can't help but jump when the Cheshire Cat speaks from only a few feet ahead of them, sounding as though he would rather be anywhere else. "Dare I inquire, Freckles?"

"I left my light saber at home," Hamish answers Chessur rather blandly, tugging Alice to a stop as the toddler sized Cat appears before them. He isn't smiling, or even looking at them. He is curled up, tail fluttering about under his nose, paws tucked against his fuzzy stomach. "Otherwise I'd give you a demonstration."

"Thank God," Alice can't help but mutter, "You broke my favorite lamp last time you played with your light saber"

"You're just jealous that _you_ don't have an LED Yoda light saber that makes sounds," Hamish sniffs, nose rising so high Alice fears he will give himself a crick in his neck. "Don't worry, though. Alice-bear, _I_ forgive you for your pettiness."

"Has the Queen come to speak to you this morning, Alice?" Chessur breaks in before Alice can explain to Hamish, possibly with artwork, why she is the better Jedi in every way – with or without a LED light saber that makes sounds when moved – and his voice is so terribly terse that it makes Alice's stomach clinch. Her mind flies immediately to Tarrant, remembering how he had come to her after dark, and how he hadn't been able to tell her his task for the White Queen was a safe one. She doesn't like the Cat's troubled eyes or twitching mouth, the nervous knot in her stomach or the fear that – before it has even had a chance to truly begin, she has lost -

"What's happened?" She asks, tightening her grip on Hamish's arm. She does not tuck herself against him and hide, but he is a solid comfort that keeps her standing, and his comfortable, well-loved warmth helps bolster the voice in Alice's mind that is boisterously telling her she is worrying over nothing.

"You'll want to come with me," Chessur watches Alice quite intently, "And do keep your leaking to a -" A violent _bang_ of displaced air cuts the Cat's uncomfortably and surly warning in half, leaving the hair on his neck and down his back to lift in jagged ends as he swirls around, claws exposed and planted firmly on air. A woman has appeared – no, Appeared, Alice corrects herself in shock – behind Chessur, scarlet hair streaming in a wind that visibly whips around her. Her eyes are a blazing gold, her face sharp and cruel and inhuman; black talons lengthen her fingers, and her sharp teeth glitter at Alice even from so far away.

Alice feels almost faint at the sight of her. It is Kore – Persephone of Hades – the woman from Sideways, from Alice's dream -

After Underland and her Hatter, all of her friends and the Marmoreal they are currently residing in, Alice should not be so surprised by her dreams walking into her waking life. She is, however, because she had always, in some part of her heart, believed her Wonderland was real. It had tormented her, that belief, but it made her arrival much easier to handle than it might have been. One dream of a flame haired Goddess does not a believer make, however. At least until she looks like Death incarnate, rocketing forward on bare – bare, shiny, cloven hooves and slender, furry ankles, actually.

She is much less human then Alice remembers her being.

"_You_!" Kore snarls, her voice so guttural Alice is surprised she can form human words at all. Hamish gives a cry of alarm (terribly close to a shriek, actually, but Alice can't really blame him on that front) and begins to tug Alice backwards. This monstrous version of Kore is entirely focused on Chessur, however, and she lunges, catching nothing but Evaporated mist in her talons. At least, that is all Alice thinks she catches, until there comes a feline yowl – one that makes Alice's eyes water, spine arch, ears ache – which bleeds into the screams of dying man. Chessur flickers back into form – but there is also the superimposed image of man, kneeling, large hands wrapped around Kore's forearm.

He is large, a massive wall of flesh and muscle. His hair is gray with shimmering blue lights when the sunlight bounces off of it, two long braids swinging from his temples, and he grins at Kore from under the shaggy length of his beard.

"I'll _kill_ you for good, this time," Kore hisses, spittle forming at the corners of her mouth. Chessur arches his back and claws the air – the man rocks back-and-forth on his knees, moving on the seemingly insane Goddess's arm where it is _inside_ his _chest_. "You worthless, no account, yellow traitor! Turncoat, coward, pathetic excuse of flesh or fur! I will _gut you, skin you, __**hang you from my wall and keep your soul to play with, until you are insane, lost, nothing of yourself and a mockery of what you once were!**_"

Alice starts to lunge forward, to save Chessur – the man – both of them, either of them, she doesn't _know_. She only wants to stop Kore, because there are supernova's spilling from her mouth, a burning light that sends cracks down the mortal flesh Kore wears, allowing shimmering bits and pieces of Goddess-flesh to peak through. It burns Alice to see it, and Hamish is collapsing, first to his knees and then leaning against the wall, hands gripping Alice's thigh to hold her close to him.

She cannot move when Chessur _laughs_.

"Troubled," he gurgles, blood falling from his sharp teeth, into his fur and beard. "Korie Leigh?"

"_My daughter_," Kore howls, stars burst to life in her hair, creating a vibrant crown. Darkness swirls around her, despite the fact it is daylight, sweeping around her shoulders and arms, cloaking her like a robe. "You might have _fought_, Watcher, you might have helped my _daughter and __**blood-of-my-blood before they were allowed to reach such a state!**_"

"When did it become my place to fight battles that belong to young godlings and Mad -" Chessur gurgles before he howls, bowing backwards as Kore advances on him. Alice thinks that is entirely possible her hand is wrapped around Chessur's heart, either of them, Man or Cat. Ribs poke, white and cruel, through his flesh and fur.

"**Kore**," the Goddess goes still and silent at the thundering voice that somehow manages to _whisper_ through the wide hall, causing her shadows to curl in on themselves, hiding against each other. She bares her teeth and snarls, before her eyes slide to the side, her head turns, and she is smirking-smiling-sneering at a massive man who is walking towards her. He is dark haired, and like the Man Chessur on his knees he wears two thin braids as well – that and the fact they are they are both large, thickly muscled men are the only things they have in common, however. This man has no sly, Cat-like angles to him; he is blunt, solid, and sure. He has reflective sunglasses slipping down his narrow nose, stubble on his chin and jaw, and he is wearing a simple white undershirt. Blue jeans, so old they are nearly white and open at the knees, grace his legs, and his feet are covered in heavy boots. He folds his arms across his chest, slows to a saunter and then stops altogether, eying Kore and an About To Be Slain Chessur/Man Chessur with an unreadable expression.

"**Kore**," he repeats in a lilting accent, "What do you think you're _doing_?"

"I'm going to kill him," she informs the man without a hint of remorse – she looks rather excited about it, actually. Hamish moans and presses his head to his knees. Alice supports herself on his huddled, burnt shoulders, and tries to keep calm.

"Sweetheart," he sighs, reaching out, threading his fingers with shadows and scarlet hair, a star falls down until it rests on his second knuckle, "You are scaring the Champion of Underland and her Hamish _terribly_."

Kore slants them a glance, and she hunkers her shoulder. She does not remove her hand from Chessur's chest.

"I can make them forget," she defends herself, "I'm going to kill him, Cern, and nothing you can do is going to stop me."

"Sweetheart," he sighs again, looking rather tired, "We don't have time to explain to the Council why you killed him."

"I always have Time," Kore says loftily, "He is my brother, after all."

"Tempus won't like all the paperwork," this Cern points rather sensibly, "And he's quite stung with Underland in general, at the moment, over his own blood, no less. Come now, sweetling, let go of the Cat."

"It seems your wife has stolen my heart!" Chessur can't seem to keep the quip to himself, and he groans, vivid green eyes rolling violently as Kore does _something_ to him.

"Twice you have left what is dear to me when they needed some help, and you could have provided it," Kore whips towards Chessur, pushing her face close to (both) of his, forcing him to confront the power swirling in her throat, dripping from her tongue, "The third shall be the last thing you do in any sort of form. Remember who you were, and what you stood for. I once called you a beloved friend and ally – now I cannot even call you trustworthy!" Kore straightens, plants one hoof in Chessur's chest (both of them, once again) and uses the force of her kick to shoot him off her hand. The man sprawls at Alice's feet, before he is only the Cheshire Cat again, rough pink tongue caught between his teeth as bones begin to snap and mend in a violent show of healing.

"_What if_," Kore says as she turns and leans into the man's chest, hooves and furry calves turning into pale skin and little feet with short clipped toe nails. Her fingernails go from talons to bitten down stubs, and the stars and shadows that had both crowned and robed her disappear, as though they had never been. "What if we had – I can't loose another, Cern, I can't loose another -"

"We won't," he tells her, rocking side-to-side, chin on top of her head; even though he has to bend down to achieve that task. "We won't loose any more babies, Kore, neither of us. I promise you. Now – I believe you have a meeting to go into with Titania?"

Kore grumbles something against his chest, and Alice can't hear it. She slips onto her knees, wrapping a comforting arm around Hamish.

"Go on," Cern urges Kore, rubbing one large hand up and down her back, "Go. The High Council needs convincing, and I can't think of two more terrifying Queen's to get the task done. _I_ will stay with Ophelia and our young Hightopp."

Alice's heart gives a curious, painful jerk in her chest.

"I love you," Kore says quietly, standing on top toes to kiss the underside of his chin. "If she wakes up, you'll send for me, won't you?"

"Of course," Cern pulls off his glasses, revealing dark blue eyes that glimmer warmly on what can only be his wife – which would make him _Hades_, Death in the flesh, and Alice's skin begins to crawl at the thought - "And I love you, even though you're an over dramatic girl, and a trial to put up with."

"Don't get me started," Kore takes a step back, out of his grasp, settling her hands on her hips, "Or you'll be crawling under a rock to get away from me."

"Nag, nag, nag – go on, woman."

Kore disappears, and Death gives Alice, Hamish, and the half-broken Chessur a rather tired smile.

"You'll have to forgive her," he says as he bends and offers Alice and Hamish each a rough hand, pulling them upright, even going so far as to help Hamish prop himself against the wall. He hunkers down, peering at Chessur's face. Alice suspects that if he were still showing off bits of man flesh, he would be pale and pained – as it is, his jagged teeth are clinched and he is grinning almost manically at the ceiling. "A mother is a vicious warrior. I'm sure you recall that, old friend."

"It's been centuries since someone handled my heart so roughly," Chessur grates out, laughing, hind legs twitching, "And in such a forward manner! You might talk with her about propriety, Cern."

"I'll put that at the top of my Honey Do-list. Need a bit of help?"

"Whatever for? I'm perfectly fine!" Chessur Evaporates without a sound, simply fading into mist. Cern sighs before straightening, brushing his hands together. Despite his handsome face and the fact he has arms like tree trunks, there is something almost comforting and fatherly about the way he looks at Alice and Hamish.

"Poor children," he sighs, holding out those large arms and gesturing forwards, "Come here, come along. We need to talk."

"The – the _fuck_ -" Hamish wheezes, shaking violently, his eyes gone half-wild. Cern's mouth goes tight, and he brushes his fingertips over Hamish's forehead before Hamish jerks away with a cry of alarm. Alice cannot blame him for it at all. "What are – what are -"

"Poor children," Cern sighs again, taking off his sunglasses, hanging them from the front of his shirt by one ear piece. "Eat something, and then we'll talk."

"_Eat_?" Hamish practically squeals, "I can't eat after _that_, I'm -"

"You can," Cern assures him, and when Alice and Hamish each get a guiding hand on the back of their necks, turning them around marching them down the hallway, Alice is positive it is in their best interest follow.

* * *

Cern explains who he is to Hamish over a breakfast that is laid on delicate bone china on a round table that is covered in a prettily embroidered table cloth (bread-and-butterflies fluttering from flower to flower, seeming to stop and have conversations before they move on to the middle, peeping up at the people eating atop their home). Hamish takes it much better then Alice expected him to, in that he did not faint even once. He is the God of Wild Places and the Hunt, as well as Life, Death, and Rebirth.

"I was born a godling, crawled right out of the Cauldron without any warning. The High God and Goddess weren't expecting it, I don't think, but they kept me as tame as they could," he explained, giving the fragile china he pours black coffee into a frown, as though it might catch fire and burn him when he picks it up. Hamish has no such worries, however, and is gratefully attacking the bitter brew – Alice is actually surprised he isn't drinking straight from the silver pot it was brought to them in. "Found Nowhere and claimed, and eventually went from a godling to a true God. Then I met Kore, and, well..."

"Well?" Hamish prompts, warming up to the deity quickly. There is something about coffee drinkers, Alice sees, that draws them together, no matter that they are two entirely different people. If they can both agree on a blend, then surely they must be eternal soul mates.

"Well," Cern repeats, before sighing and taking a long pull of his drink. He sighs happily, cradling the little cup between his hands. "It's a very long story after I met her. Go on, finish eating."

"You're not going to, like..." Hamish pauses, searching for the right word, "Reap me while you're here, are you?"

"Morrigan's knickers, no!" Cern curses, sitting his cup down to wave his hands in the air, "I mean, well, as long as you don't do something _really_ stupid, like jumping off the tallest tower of Marmoreal! Then you're fucked, kid, and we are going to have a very long talk before I let you have corporeal form again."

"I won't," Hamish promises, looking a bit twitchy all the same.

"Alice, dear," Cern points to her plate, "Eat your eggs, please."

Alice prods them with her fork.

"I'm not very hungry," she informs him in a Tone that always makes Hamish look at the toes of his shoes and never, ever question her on anything she says or does unless it is absolutely life-threatening. "You mentioned Tarrant Hightopp earlier, what happened? Is he alright – is he here?"

"**Alice, dear**," Cern does that whispering-thunder voice, making Alice's chair shake under her even as toast, small knife, and pat of butter rise into the air. The butter is quickly and evenly spread on the toast, leaving Cern to reach up and snag it, leaning back in his chair and showing her too many of white teeth. "**Eat your eggs, now**."

Alice eats her eggs, leaving not even crumbs of them on the plate. Hamish practically licks his plate clean, and then eyes it, as though wondering if he should attempt to eat the china, _just_ to be on the safe side of things.

"Very good," Cern praises them both, reaching out and patting Alice's hand, giving her a pleased smile and nod. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Keeps your energy up! Why, when Kore and I were – never mind. I'm getting a bit random in my dotage. Turning into Dagda, he could talk for England...right. Young Mister Hightopp -"

Cern cuts himself off, tapping his long, blunt fingers against his knees, staring towards the sky, a frown curling at his lips. Alice chews on her tongue to keep from screaming at him.

"Hightopp was traveling through Bigh Shidewe Wood, early this morning, accompanied by a White Guard numbered sixteen strong. In an attack planned, formed, and no doubt led by the Unnamed Ones – but you don't know about them, do you?" Cern pauses, brow furrowing before he waves his hand. "That can be explained later, though. Hightopp and the guard was attacked by a horde of shadow demons -"

"_Demons_?" Hamish drawls in horror, eyebrows crawling towards his hairline. "What do you – like – _you_ -?"

"No, no, _not_ me," Cern levels a faintly reproaching look on Hamish, "Good grief, boy, what are they teaching you these days? _Honestly_. Where was I? Unnamed Ones, Bigh Shidewe – right, they were attacked the shadow demons, and most unfortunately all the White Guards have passed into Nowhere -"

"Nowhere?" Hamish questions rather faintly.

"They're dead," Alice says in a whisper-thin voice, hands trembling violently. "Aren't they?"

"Bodies die, Champion," Cern tells her gently, "Souls rarely do. Yours has gone to Nowhere several times, and it will come back again; and look at you, twice you've been Alice Kingsleigh, Champion of the White Queen, Marmoreal, and Underland! Those brave soldiers will follow the Wheel of Life, just like you did."

Alice cannot summon up more then a nod, fear twisting her gut. What if – what if _Tarrant_ – she can't even think it. The thought causes a violent ache in her chest and steals her breath.

"My daughter went to the aid of your Hightopp," Cern tells her very gently, one large, heavily calloused hand reaching out to grip Alice's. She finds herself clinging to him, because he is solid and strong, and his eyes hold secrets, so many secrets in their starry depths - "Thanks to Ophelia's assistance, the Hightopp is alive. He is -"

Alice can't help but let out a great, wavering noise of relief, slumping against the back of the chair and allowing her eyes to close. She isn't one for tears, normally, but she wants to cry, now that she knows he is alive, and – she had been so _scared_! She has only just come back to her Wonderland, after all, and what is the point of being there if there is no Hatter, or tea parties, or riddles, or rhymes, or games? Alice thinks the world would loose color and words would loose grace if he was to leave it anyway.

"There, now," Cern croons softly, reaching up to run a hand over her golden hair, his eyes and touch gentle, "I didn't think of how worried you must have been, I'm sorry for dragging that out. He is alive, but he is wounded -"

"_Wounded_?" Alice rockets to her feet, tugging her hand from the God's and fairly turning a helpless circle as she looks towards the entrances back into Marmoreal. "How badly? Where is he?"

"Alice," Hamish nearly whispers, taking her elbow as he stands, shuffling their chairs out of the way to hover protectively over her. "Calm down."

"Calm down!" Alice feels the blood rushing to her head in one great, rolling surge of anger. "I've only just gotten him _back_, Hamish! Do you realize that? I died before I came back to him, and he went even Madder waiting on me! Now I am here, and he is wounded, and I am eating _eggs_ as though – as though that even matters!"

"He's unconscious," Cern speaks up, not standing, once more staring at the sky. "He's suffering from the Waste– means he's burnt out, magically, I mean. It's going to take him a while to fully recover from. Weeks, I would assume. He has external injuries that are not pleasant, but they will be gone within a few days. Not only is the White Queen looking after him, my daughter Rhiannon has arrived, and is assisting in the Infirmary. I can show you to the Infirmary, if you would -"

"Now," Alice nearly snaps, before she remembers the thunder of his voice and the stars in his eyes, and thinks to tack only a slightly less demanding, "Please."

"I'm at your service," Cern spreads his hands, and if he is anything other then sincere, Alice really doesn't care.

* * *

"Wake up, you foul little godling!" Ophelia slams into the solid floor of the White Army's Infirmary, pain rocketing like liquid fire from neck to the rest of her body. Her stomach churns in the wake, and she scrambles to her knees; even though she is of divine blood she still has healing left to do, and though she has been tight scrapes, she can't remember ever feeling so weak or useless after a battle. Magic had wrapped her from every side when she fought to save the life of the Hatted man, fought against the demons that flickered from shadow-to-shadow, seeking godling blood to strengthen them. She had been drained, turned over and dumped out, and now she feels as though she is a cold, empty cup that is threatening to collapse in on it's self without volume to keep her sides up.

"Stand up," rough hands grip her shoulders, dragging her to her feet. They release her before she has found her balance and she wobbles and wavers violently, stumbling several steps forward before she curls her hands into fists and locks her knees. Her right one is a mess, Rhiannon had told her before a combination of Will'O'Wisp and Northern Wind had knocked Ophelia right back into unconsciousness, a state she had been free of for perhaps a quarter of an hour before she was once again drugged. "Weak, pampered little girl, can't you even _stand_ on your own?"

"Kiss my glow in the dark ass you mold licking, two-faced, cowardly -" Man-Chessur's hand appears, devoid of arm or body, and slams into Ophelia's face with the force of a train. It is an open handed hit, and Ophelia is dimly thankful; she thinks his fist would have killed her. Rhiannon had informed her of her injuries in the short time she was awake; a ruptured tendon in her neck tops the list, and Ophelia nearly howls as violent pain slashes from her skull to her toes as her head jerks with the force of the hard slap. She twists as she falls, landing across her bed. She struggles to her feet, tasting blood and seeing red even in the dim shadows of the Infirmary.

The Hatted man is abed, close to Ophelia. A young woman is with him, settled in a chair, bent at the waist and sleeping on the mattress beside him. Her hand clutches his, and Ophelia finds the scene rather sweet, the pair of them in the moonlight, before a boot is in her back and she is being ground into the mattress.

"Get up," clothing is tossed to the bed beside Ophelia, "Get dressed. Quickly."

"I can barely walk," Ophelia snarls, wriggling and swinging her elbows and hands behind her, attempting to free herself. The boot presses harder, and Ophelia feels her back slowly but surely dislocating. "Or bend my head, and I'm Wasted, Burnt Out! How do you think I can train if I can't -"

"Do you think your Golden father is going to stop attacking you when you're wounded?" The boot leaves Ophelia's back, a massive body replaces it. Ophelia squeezes her eyes shut, chest aching as she Remembers things that make her believe Ogma's hissed words. "Or your uncle? I was there, you know, when your mam was taken from Bellan Moir, I saw what he did to her. He'll enjoy you, weak thing; you'll be easy to break and remold. You'll make a nice replacement for your mammie, won't you? He didn't stop when she was injured – he used her harder, very nearly ripped her open to break her. You won't even be able to fight him -"

Ophelia snarls like an animal, thrashing violently, stars bursting behind her eyes as she slaps outwards with a mean press of magic. It slams into the Man Chessur, who gives a mean laugh and stands.

"Training field," he tells her, the tip of one boot pressing against the bend of her injured knee, a warning of what he Could Do. "Quickly, or I'll kill you now. It would be a blessing, godling. I would be much nicer then your father or uncle."

Ophelia struggles to her feet, panting, rage boiling inside her chest. She nearly rips the aged, faded pajamas someone had brought her to wear off, hopping into a pair of trousers, gritting her teeth to stem tears as she jerks a leather tunic on. Rough hands appear out of the air – Ophelia feels so angry she is faint when she realizes the bastard had stood and watched her dress, again – tugging hard at the side laces, until she is tied into the training armor she favors. She jams her feet into her boots, unlaced and sitting at the end of her bed, pleased when they lace themselves up for her.

She clomps to out of the castle and to the training field, vision swimming, hands trembling violently. She can't fight, she knows that – she can't fight, she can barely bloody _walk_. But she would rather die then give that evil, nasty Cat the satisfaction of watching her fail. If he does kill her, at least she knows that her parents will introduce a world of hurt on him; no amount of smooth talking or Evaporating will save his furry hide from her mam, and she hopes they will wait until she is recovered from the River to watch him be skinned. Alive, preferably.

"Look at you," he sneers, circling her, a cruel amusement in his large eyes, a Cat playing with a Mouse. Ophelia isn't used to being seen as such – she's a royal child, a Wanderer of Nowhere, and of Teutates bloodline; the general masses are scared of _her_, without Ophelia having to do a thing to make them that way. She isn't _stalked_, ordered about, slapped around - "I've fought armies – legions! - in much worse shape then this, and you can barely summon up enough strength to do more then glare at me!"

"Give me my swords," Ophelia snarls, letting her anger push her past the pain that is sweeping through her body, mingling with the after affects of the potions she has been given for Healing. "I'll show you how much fucking strength I have."

"You don't deserve to carry them," Man Chessur snaps, swirling around to stand in front of her. He glares her down, large body outlined by the moon behind him, his face in shadows. "You're a pitiful, pathetic creature, and I won't let you sully Kore's First Blades with your fumbling, shameful attempts. Watching you pretend to be a warrior was _sickening_! You'll fight me with what you have here and now – yourself! Nothing else! No godling _magic_, not that you have any left..."

He lunges for her without warning. Ophelia attempts to dart to her left, used to being light and nimble, quick on her feet. Her wounds and exhaustion slow her. He doubles a fist, drives it into her stomach, and watches her fly backwards. She hits the ground gurgling on bile, but she finds her feet as quickly as she can, centering herself in a low, defensive crouch even though she has spots in her vision.

Ogma, Champion of the Tuatha dé Danann, beats the living hell out of Ophelia that night. By the end she is unable to stand, her stomach is heavy and filled with sloshing warmth, and she is choking on her own blood. She knows her injuries are worse then when she began; she has internal bleeding, she cannot see from her left eye, and she thinks her knee has snapped to the point she is permanently lamed. She has never fought so hard in her life, and all she has to show to for it are death wounds and the bleeding lacerations she gorged into Chessur-Ogma's stomach when her instincts had kicked in and talons (not nearly as large or deadly as her mam's, but more weapon then she'd had before them) had developed. She lays on the ground, wheezing as her lungs fill with fluid. Man Chessur leans over her, one hand touching his bloody abdomen.

"This is it?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "Useless! I haven't got enough Time in any world to turn you into the warrior you ought to be." He bends over her, letting her see, with her one good eye, the tip of thick, rough pink tongue poking from between his jagged teeth. He bites down, blood dribbling from his mouth as he grips her chin and leans over her. Ophelia struggles as best she can, but despite the fact she has the _will_ to fight, she hasn't got the ability. His mouth presses over hers, bleeding tongue forcing her lips open, the pressure he puts on the hinges of her jaw keeping her from biting him. His blood fills her mouth, slips down her throat and Ophelia gags, almost retches. He sits up on his knees, fastening a hand over her mouth, forcing her to swallow.

"You aren't worthy of my blood," he tells her, not cruelly, not even with amusement, but matter-of-factly – and Ophelia hates the fact she believes him. "Not yet. But you will be Healed. Much better then the potions and poultices you would normally receive." He lets go of her mouth, and Ophelia rolls on her side, vomiting violently. The fluid clears her lungs and chest, the blood comes up from her stomach, and she collapses on the ground, trembling and desperate for a proper breath of air as inside her chest her ribs snap-crackle-pop like breakfast cereal as they heal.

By the time vision begins to return to her left eye, she is being lifted by Ogma. Everything turns to Mist and Darkness, coldness trickles between Ophelia's fingers and she can hear voices, so many voices – and then they are standing in her borrowed bed chamber at Marmoreal. Man Chessur strides forward and lays her on the bed, not carefully but with no extra force or cruelty. He bends over her, going about unlacing her tightly pulled and laced boots.

The drinking of ichor is taboo. Ophelia doesn't know why, exactly, but she knows it _is_. In many cases it can be healing to a godling or another deity, but it is practically forbidden. She can count on her fingertips the times her parents have loosened their veins to save each other, and in bardic tales of her parents the act is seen as an act of complete devotion. Ogma has no devotion towards Ophelia, neither her to him, and she knows this is not case; love did not make him act. There is something else, her mind is quick to tell her, he is playing at some game.

She is still the Mouse. She does not understand the game that she is now a part of, and she realizes that an open-ended boon with the Smiling God was probably not her best idea. In fact, it's starting to look as though it will be worse then the time she set her Mimi Velma's house on fire.

"Sleep," Man Chessur says firmly as he pulls at her arms until she sits up, his fingers making quick work of the laces of her leather tunic, before he is yanking it off of her. Ophelia grits her teeth and forces her weak arms to snag a pillow to protect her modesty. What little she has, at least. "Idiot girl, I could care less about what ever fair wares you think might interest me. Put that down – down!" He easily wrestles the pillow from Ophelia, and she levels a glare on him that could cut through several sheets of steel, remaining stiff legged and taunt while he attempts to get her trousers off her.

He plants a hand in her chest, holds her down, and _rips_ her trousers off. Ophelia bites her tongue on a shriek of outrage, hating the fact she is too weak to do more then kick him in the arm. Which does absolutely nothing but make _her_ feel a bit better.

"You'll never be wed," he tells her seriously, jerking the blankets out from under her before pulling them up, until she is covered from toes to collarbone. "What a mulish girl you are!"

"Die in a fire," Ophelia suggests, earning herself a snort and shake of his great, silvery head.

"Rest well, godling,"

"No, really," Ophelia insists, "Die in a fire. Like...now."

"Tomorrow night," he tells as he fades into nothing but a leering sort of smile, "I might let you choke on your own blood rather then give you mine."

"I'd rather choke," she insists in return, before exhaustion sweeps her under and she passes out.

* * *

Tarrant wakes in the morning, feeling very much as though he has spent several months in the dungeons of Salazen Grum, at the tender mercies of Stayne and the begh hid. He aches from top-to-bottom, as well as inside-and-out. He knows that the ceiling he peers at when his eyes open is the Infirmary of Marmoreal – he has spent quite a bit of time there over years – but when he flattens his palms to the mattress he lies upon, he finds his right hand tangling in something soft and warm. He looks down, and in the pale light of dawn, he is greeted with the sight of Alice, sprawled along the edge of his bed, about to slip from a chair she had drawn close, snoring softly and looking _terribly_ uncomfortable.

From the state of wrinkled clothing and the tangles in her loose hair, he suspects she has been there for quite some time. His heart swells violently, stomach filling with bread-and-butterflies as he lets his bare fingers tangle up with her bright curls, a smile curling his mouth even though he is pained, exhausted (despite all the time he has spent sleeping, how strange!), and aching. His Alice returned to Underland (to him, a pleased voice whispers in the back of his mind, and not all the Usual Sort of voice, which is dark, dreadful, and disheartening – this one is quite happy!), he kept the promise he made to her, and she has slept at his bedside while he has been ill. It touches him more then he thinks he could ever explain to Alice, and he rubs the softness of her hair between his thumb and index finger, closing his eyes and luxuriating in the fact that after so bluddy long, he can _touch_ her.

"Oh," he breaths happily, and then less so, "_Oh_!"

Alice, he realizes, has to be _terribly _uncomfortable where she is at, half on a chair, half on his borrowed bed. He doesn't want her made uncomfortable – it might convince her to Leave, to go back Above. Tarrant doesn't think he could survive that, and it pushes him to movement.

He struggles to sit up, maneuvering around until he is sliding from the bed. His nightshirt falls past his knees, and his toes cringe at the touch the cold floor, but he wobbles and wavers until he can paddle around to Alice. Tarrant takes a deep breath, clinches his teeth, and hoists her into his arms, against his chest, and the entire Infirmary is very contrary and spins several mad circles about him. He braces his knee against the edge of the mattress, even while everything moves around him, and lowers her gently, until she is on the far side of the bed. He pulls at the blankets until she is partly under them, and slips back into the bed. Behind her – arms wrapped around her, as they had done on her first day back, when she had stepped through a looking glasses and told him she was _home_.

Alice grunts, wriggling until she is a bit farther down in the bed, toes on top of his feet, knees curled, and one arm flung forward, hand hanging off the edge of the bed. Tarrant can't help but grin as he nestles against her, inhaling deeply of her scent. He goes back to sleep, warm and comforted, content to be injured and drained if it gives him an Alice to hold on to. (He doesn't have Nightmares of Dead Alice, Rotting Alice, Alice in a Pine Box, being lowered into the ground – not when she is pressed tight against him.)


End file.
